Dance is Chemistry
by Zoffoli
Summary: "John, I've... discovered things." "Good things, I hope?" Sherlock nodded. "When I discover things, I want to experiment..." John blinked. "You want to experiment on me." "On us, John. I want to experiment on us." Johnlock. Sequel to 'Let me Dance for You' and 'I Like to Watch You Dance'.
1. Waking

**Disclaimer: **All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners, Arthur Conan Doyle and in their BBC version Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Stephen Thompson. The original characters and plot are mine. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**A/N:**This is the third opus in my 'Dance' series, after _I Like to Watch You Dance_ and _Let Me Dance for You_. It would certainly make more sense to read those two first. Oh and as always, reviewers are loved :)

**_Edit:_**_ This story is being betaed by TheRimmerConnection. All my thanks!_

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_oOo_

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**DANCE IS CHEMISTRY**

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**_Chapter 1: Waking_**

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Sherlock had been awake for at least an hour, frozen on the spot in John's arms, until he dared extract himself from the mess of their tangled limbs and sneak into the safety of the kitchen. Well, safety... At least he could pretend everything was perfectly normal.

_Right._ Wasn't it easy to forget the fact that you'd just been about to kill yourself because your archenemy had broken you beyond repair, that your flatmate thought the best cure was to lap dance for you until you were making out on a chair and that you spent the night together on the couch? Sherlock groaned, rubbing his temples.

Several courses of action crossed his mind. _Get into the shower_. That one didn't sound bad, but for some reason he just couldn't bring himself to get up from his chair and wash. It would be necessary at some point, and he knew it. Yet he was repelled by the thought of having to touch his own body, even if it was just to wash it, after it had been touched by so many people in one day (and by too many people, he meant by people _at all_). He shivered and swallowed with some difficulty. What in the world had he got himself into? He was so confused, and had no idea whatsoever of what was expected of him now. John had effectively saved his life, but what was it worth?

John had known exactly what to do to bring him back, and it still amazed Sherlock. Of course, they lived together, so he was bound to know a few things about him and his way of thinking or what he held important in everyday life, but to be able to undo Moriarty's breaking... _No_, he corrected himself, _he hasn't. _He had just broken himself to pieces too and merged their shattered remains together. So what _were_ they now?

Sherlock let his head fall dramatically onto the kitchen table and was suddenly bothered by a peculiar smell on his shirt. One he was familiar with, but wasn't used to smelling in his flat. He started. Blood. _John's_ blood. Jumping to his feet he charged out of the kitchen and burst in on a still sleeping John. Grabbing him by the arm, he turned him on his back. His eyes widened at the sight of the scar and stitches. He started shaking him.

"John. John, wake up. John. John! We must get you to a hospital! John! JOHN!"

John woke up with a jolt and instinctively searched for his handgun, then realized he was in the living-room with an eerie blue gaze fixed on him. It all hit him when he saw his friend's worried expression.

"Sherlock... What's wrong? Shouting all of a sudden..."

"John, you're seriously injured, we must get you to the hospital or...There's no time to talk, put on some clothes and let's go!"

"What?"

"Oh John I know you're slow but _please_ won't you hurry?"

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock gulped and fell back onto the chair he'd spent the previous night sitting in. They stared at each other. John was still naked except for his boxers, and Sherlock was completely dishevelled and stained with at least five different bodily fluids. His eyes on John's scar, he didn't dare utter a single word. John, on the other hand, was fascinated by his friend's appearance and was having a hard time forming coherent thoughts. Finally, he said:

"Look, I told you already. I can take care of that myself. I just have to disinfect it and stitch it back. No big deal."

"No big deal?" Sherlock repeated in disbelief.

"Yes. No big deal," John echoed firmly.

They fell silent for a moment.

"How long have you been awake?"

"An hour or so. Maybe two. Or three."

John sighed.

"Did you get any sleep at all?"

A pause.

"Yes."

He averted his gaze. Carefully, John moved closer to him, sitting on the edge of the couch.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock complied.

"Are you sure it's fine not going to..."

"Shh. It's all right. We're done talking about that."

"Don't you 'shh' me! I'm not a child!"

John couldn't help but chuckle, and Sherlock's indignant look didn't help either. It was so endearing John had to stop himself from kissing him on the spot. He blushed. Now it was his turn to feel awkward. _Stop this! I have to be the reasonable one here_. He caught Sherlock observing him and his cheeks turned crimson when he smirked. But then he seemed to realize what he was doing and he looked away.

"Why did you do it?"

Silence.

_Because I love you. I love you to distraction, _thought John.

Instead he said:

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes."

"Did you want it?"

"... Yes."

John understood the pause meant 'eventually'. Because at first Sherlock hadn't wanted it. He hadn't wanted anything.

"Well, so did I."

Sherlock turned a disoriented look on him. John thought some physical contact would be good, and took his hand, eliciting a shiver from his partner.

"You have to go and fix this wound, John," Sherlock said, tracing the scar gently, avoiding the undone stitches. "We should have taken care of it before we fell asleep."

John leant in and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder – he stiffened and his grip tensed a little, but he didn't protest. Breathing in the tousled black curls, John stroked his friend's hand soothingly, running circles with his thumb.

"What did you rack your brain about while I was still sleeping?"

At first Sherlock considered denying it, but then he thought that would be rather insulting. This whole affair was so confusing. He still felt something gnawing in the pit of his stomach – fear, perhaps, or still self-disgust?

"Hey. I'm here."

Sherlock frowned.

"I know you are."

Silence.

"… John?"

"Hum?"

"John, I've... discovered things."

Sherlock noticed he relished pronouncing John's name even more than before. _Stupid_, he thought, slapping himself mentally.

"Good things, I hope?"

Sherlock nodded. He could tell John didn't really know where this was going, and so went on tentatively, averting his eyes.

"When I discover things, I want to experiment..."

John blinked. This was a little too convoluted for a first morning. Of course he hadn't expected Sherlock to stay in bed with him – they weren't even on a bed anyway – or to make him breakfast and whatnot. But he hadn't expected a frenzied consulting detective shouting about stitches and hospital either, or this now... Discoveries? Experiments? What was he on about? It was too early for chemistry riddles.

Chemistry. Oh. _Oh_. Why hadn't he seen this coming? John closed his eyes. He had. Of course he had. _Well, good news for the body, bad news for the heart. _He ignored how silly that sounded even in his own mind.

"You want to experiment on me."

It wasn't really a question but he still managed to sound nonplussed about it.

"On us, John. I want to experiment on us."

This startled him. _Us_? So there was such a thing? Sherlock stood up abruptly and stepped away.

"Of course if you don't want to, I'll understand, I–"

"Sherlock–"

"It's fine. Naturally it was only a one-time thing, I'm sorry I asked, I was just–"

"Sherlock."

"Don't worry about it. You have worried yourself enough, and I'm... Thank you."

He just stood there, head down. Not actually curling in on himself, but still looking _shy_. John stared, mesmerized. That 'thank you' made him want to stand up and embrace Sherlock there and then, like a koala bear curled up to its tree, and hold him tight. Literally. And forever. At this point he didn't even find the thought absurd.

"Sherlock."

"It's fi–"

"Will you stop babbling and listen to me?"

He stood up and took the pale hands in his, intertwining his rough fingers with Sherlock's long, slender ones.

"I'd love to. Experiment on us."

Sherlock squirmed. That didn't sound right. Had John misunderstood? He wasn't asking him _out_ so to speak.

"John, I didn't mean–"

"I know. As I said, experiment all you want." _I'm yours_.

He hadn't actually had time to finish saying it the previous night, and he certainly wouldn't say it now. Because _that_ did sound absurd – not to mention incredibly cheesy. John had never understood the phrase until now. 'I'm yours.' You can't be somebody's property because you can't _own_ a person. You can pretend and believe you do, but you can never know – because it's another person and you're not in their head, not under their skin, not in their blood pumped by heart beats, not in the air of their lungs... John took a deep breath. This was crazy. It would definitely kill him.

"You can do whatever you want."

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, but John went on before he could say a thing.

"But..."

Something like fear flickered in the opalescent eyes, and John felt the urge to drink it all up.

"... you have to tell me first. Not in detail, but the general idea of what you intend to do. Whether you perform it on me or yourself."

"Do you think I could hurt you?" Sherlock asked, sounding offended and almost hurt.

"I think you could hurt yourself. And not with the right mindset."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Because there's a right mindset for such a thing?"

"Hurting yourself?"

He nodded. John chuckled.

"The belt?"

Sherlock blinked. Twice. Then blushed, hard. He tried to squirm away from John's grasp but the doctor kept their hands firmly entwined.

"Rule number two."

Sherlock groaned.

"How many are there?"

"Think of it as safety guidelines, like using goggles, aprons and gloves when doing chemical experiments."

"I don't wear _aprons."_

John smirked and tried to ignore the unexpectedly arousing mental image – God this was so _silly..._

"Rule number two: we don't run away from this. If we want to stop, we say so."

At this Sherlock squeezed their hands and furrowed his eyebrows.

"John. I don't want you to leave. You're my best friend. The only one I've ever had. I need you in my life."

John stared dumbfounded, rendered speechless. Sherlock's eyes were burning – with determination, fury, passion? He had no idea. He couldn't think straight at the moment. But Sherlock wasn't frantic, wasn't even aroused or anything. Those pupils were blazing with something much deeper, and John had no idea a _friendship_ confession could ever be so... intense.

"I won't experiment if it will jeopardize what we have. Had..." He sighed in frustration. "I don't know where we're standing, John. This... this is new. It's confusing. Not you. Not us."

John arched an eyebrow.

"But _my body_ is confusing." Then he added as an afterthought, frowning even more: "And so is yours."

He looked back up almost excitedly and John couldn't help but visualize a little kid, eyes shining and amazed at a new, fascinating toy.

"Your breathing."

John tried not to burst out laughing – seriously, what was he on about? He couldn't hold back an amused and puzzled smile, looking inquisitively at Sherlock.

"It's not boring."

As the words dawned on him, John's eyes widened. His vision blurred a little, although no tears came out – he wasn't on the verge of crying; just of falling even deeper in love with his friend, if that was even possible.

Sherlock, keeping their fingers laced, wrapped his arms around John's lower back gingerly, and started to sway softly. He sighed and brought his cheek against the smaller man's ear, and John revelled in the freshness of the skin being pressed to the side of his head.

"I don't know what we have. But I know when I thought I'd lost it, I..."

He swallowed, groping for words.

"... didn't like it," he concluded with a frown, and if John had seen his face he couldn't have resisted kissing him because it was positively adorable.

John chuckled against the black mop of hair and let himself be swayed against Sherlock's chest – he felt slightly trapped, what with his arms being twisted behind his own back just because the self-centred git wanted to hug him and simultaneously keep his hands in his. As he hummed and rested his head on the angular shoulder, John thought he couldn't have been happier to oblige.

He knew Sherlock was already testing, exploring.

"I don't know what will happen. That's the whole point of an experiment. But I don't want you to..."

There were so many words. _Hate me. Despise me. Fear me. Find me repulsive. Because you should, shouldn't you? _His throat tightened and stifled the words that wouldn't come out. He felt his pulse throb in his chest and resonate against John's. Finally, he croaked:

"People say I'm a freak."

"Sherlock..."

"They're right. I'm not normal."

"But normal is boring."

"Not to you," Sherlock whispered.

OK, time to stop this downward spiralling. Remaining trapped in the long, awkward arms, John put enough distance between them to look Sherlock in the eye with resolve.

"But in fact, no one's really normal around you. Lestrade is a crazy enough D.I. to ask for your help on cases and for following you all the way to Dartmoor. Mrs. Hudson puts up with you and can fool CIA agents. Molly Hooper enjoys working at the morgue even more than playing with her cat and falls only for madmen. I'm not even going to start on the subject of Mycroft or Irene Adler – not to mention Moriarty's obsession with you. As for myself... I get off on danger and am addicted to the thrill you give me. I'm not even gay and yet I always put you before my girlfriends. I ignore body parts and clean up the remains of failed experiments while I eat my toast in the morning. I work at the clinic in the day as I answer your texts and do research for you, that is, when I'm not ditching the job altogether or sleeping off the previous night. I come home for tea and force you to eat as if I were your babysitter and not your flatmate, follow you on crime scenes, watch crap telly and write on my blog before running around London after criminals – or pursued by them. If I wasn't living with you, I'm sure I'd be the madman in the house."

Sherlock was piercing him with his gaze and seemed to be hanging on his every word. John grinned.

"You _are _a freak. And so are we."

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_oOo_

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**_tbc_**

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**_A/N:_**So, should I make Sherlock wear an apron? ;p


	2. Showering

A/N: As you can see, chapters' length will probably vary quite a bit... ^^' Hope you enjoy reading, and as always, reviewers are loved! _~¤Zoffoli_

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**Dance is Chemistry**

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_oOo_

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**_Chapter 2: Showering_**

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Sherlock was piercing him with his gaze and seemed to be hanging on his every word. John grinned.

"You _are _a freak. And so are we."

Keeping his eyes downcast, Sherlock remained silent. _Not convinced, then_, John thought. He held back a sigh.

"Haven't taken a shower yet?"

Sherlock stiffened visibly and stepped away, turning back to the kitchen.

"No, not yet. Would you like me to prepare breakfast while you take yours?"

John frowned at his friend's back and his face darkened. He wavered a second, then went for the fake obliviousness.

"No actually, I'd rather prepare breakfast myself, if you don't mind. No offence, but you _never_ cook or prepare food outside of your experiments. I'd rather have something edible this morning. Why don't you go first?"

"I'm fine. I'll just watch you."

John arched an eyebrow.

"Preparing breakfast I mean!" Sherlock added precipitately, realizing the ambiguity of what he'd just said.

John smirked and slowly walked up to him.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather watch me in the shower?"

He smiled innocently. Sherlock gulped and turned back to him.

"_Excuse_ me?"

John shrugged, a pout on his face.

"I don't think I can find myself in a more embarrassing situation than last night, you know."

Then in a graver tone:

"Why don't you want to shower?"

Something close to irritation flashed in Sherlock's eyes and he furrowed his brow slightly.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm not scared of taking a _shower_."

"Who said anything about being scared?" John remarked, coming closer.

Sherlock stepped back, tense. His chest was suddenly fluttering with panic. He tried to keep his face in check, and as he couldn't, looked away and pretended to clean up his experiment table (and their kitchen table) a bit.

"_I _did. And I am not."

"Really?" John murmured, noticing Sherlock didn't repeat the word. He sneaked his arms around his friend's waist and pressed him closer.

Sherlock started and a shiver ran down his spine. His hands began to shake so he tightened them into fists. It didn't help.

"It's all right to be scared," John whispered against his back.

Sherlock felt tears threatening to fill his eyes and he was so frustrated he snapped.

"I am _not_ scared, John. And spare me your platitudes."

Even he knew his tone was biting, and he felt a twinge of remorse. But before he could amend anything John was turning him round to face him, pinning him against the table. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise and fear and he became flustered.

"Rule number three. You can snap at me all you want – you've always done that, and you'll probably never stop – but don't you dare lie to me so blatantly. I know I'm an idiot, but even _Anderson_ would be able to tell you're scared right now."

This probably wasn't the right thing to say, for Sherlock seemed appalled at the thought. Soon horror and disdain were replaced by shame and fear on his face. He looked so distraught John couldn't help but lean in and hug him. He felt the urge to kiss him, and embraced him more tightly so he wouldn't be tempted.

Sherlock was so stiff in his arms the only sign that he wasn't holding a corpse was the loud beating heart hammering in his chest. John breathed in the scent of his friend, stroking the nape of his neck to release tension, playing gingerly with locks of hair.

"Please, won't you tell me? You know I'm stupid. I can't guess."

In fact, he could. He was a doctor after all, and was familiar with the after effects of rape, whatever the form. The person could either spend hours in the shower trying to cleanse themselves, either refuse to touch their own body, categorically.

Still, he wanted to hear Sherlock voice it. He knew it would help.

"I know you know," Sherlock grumbled against his ear, and John could hear the pout in his voice. He smiled.

"What do I know?"

Silence. Slowly, Sherlock pushed John back and took a step away, forcing himself to look him in the eye.

"I don't want to touch my body."

He said it matter-of-factly, but John wasn't fooled for a second.

"Do you want to touch mine?"

Sherlock was thrown off balance by the question and looked at his flatmate with bewilderment.

"What?"

"Do you want to touch mine? Or does that repel you too?"

"No!" he cried. Then, more quietly, suddenly shivering: "No... no, never..."

And suddenly as if the connection was perfectly obvious: "You've got to clean your wound and stitch it back. Or we're going to the hospital."

"God Sherlock, do you _want_ to go to the hospital, or what?"

Sherlock averted his gaze and looked like a kicked puppy. John sighed.

"Let's take a shower, Sherlock."

"Didn't you hear me?" he spat back.

"I meant together. You wash me, I wash you. How does that work for you?"

Sherlock stared, baffled.

"You want me to wash you. You want to wash _me_."

John didn't understand his puzzlement.

"Right. That's what I said."

"Why should we wash each other? Do normal people wash each other? I thought only animals did."

"What about babies?"

"As I said."

He shrugged disdainfully and John couldn't help but laugh.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked defensively, obviously offended.

Then a thought hit him. It had nothing to do with babies, but Sherlock hadn't grasped that it was what had made John laugh. He thought about the situation instead. In such a context, was it normal behaviour to shower together? Would he be expected to do so, after all John had gone through just for him? Because even in the midst of confusion, fear, pain and self-disgust, Sherlock was well aware how much it had cost John, a straight man, to strip tease in front of his _male_ flatmate, especially when he was attracted to said flatmate for some unfathomable reason. Not only strip tease, but lap dance too. It must have been humiliating, and that had been the whole point. What Sherlock had done for John in the basement to save his life, John had done for him in their flat to save his too.

"Sherlock?"

He jolted back to reality.

"Yes."

"What were you thinking about?"

"Let's take a shower."

"Can't you answer my... what?"

Sherlock scoffed.

"Have you turned deaf? I said let's take a shower. Yours or mine?"

John was at a loss for words. What had he missed?

"Mine, then. It's closer."

"Right. Um... Let me get my stuff."

As John ran off upstairs, Sherlock walked slowly to his bathroom. If John insisted so much on the shower, it must have been important, right? So he should just go along with it. Moreover, last time he'd complied and listened to John and gone along with something as crazy as a lap dance, he'd felt better afterwards. He didn't understand why, but seeing he could give pleasure to John and have him moaning under his touch had amazed him and he still marvelled at this newly found power. Maybe that was it, then. Just a way to regain power over something, anything. _But John isn't anything_, he thought as he turned the water on to test the temperature.

John came back with clothes and towels, and found Sherlock staring at his reflection in the mirror.

"Shouldn't you be taking care of the wound before we take a shower?" he asked tonelessly.

John shivered at the lifeless voice. Sherlock must have been deep in thoughts – and apparently not good ones. He shrugged at his friend's question.

"You're supposed to wait 48 hours before you can get your stitches wet in the shower, but since I have to do them again I might as well take the shower before."

Sherlock frowned.

"That's definitely the soldier speaking, not the doctor. Your logic doesn't make sense."

John smiled.

"It's fine, you're logical enough for the whole street, remember?"

Sherlock pouted and then remembered why they had come here. He swallowed with difficulty. John was already more than half naked. He on the other hand was fully clothed. The exact same clothes he had been wearing in the basement, except for the shirt, which he had left there. The one he was now wearing was new. He hadn't even paid attention when he had bought it, and the colour (dark green) didn't fit him at all. Not that he cared much now.

As Sherlock brought his hands up to undo his shirt buttons, they started shaking uncontrollably. He bit his lip and tried harder, but he couldn't even get to the first button. Panic swelled in his chest as the memories from the forced strip tease flashed before his eyes. Suddenly warm hands were holding his, leading him to the buttons gently but firmly. Sherlock gasped.

John wasn't undressing him. He was merely directing his hands to the buttons, moving the fingers around until they were all undone, making Sherlock do all the gestures and take the shirt off himself. The shaking wouldn't stop, but he let John lead his hands to his shoulders to make the sleeves slide down his arms, slowly. It was so foreign that he was mesmerized by his own moves, as if he'd never done them before, even though he'd repeated those very same gestures for years – since he always wore shirts.

Sherlock had his back to the mirror, but he still shivered when the shirt finally fell to the floor and his torso was bared. The last time it had been so, he was writhing on a chair in front of John and a stranger, Moriarty in his back, pulling his arms and exposing him even more. He paled abruptly and felt his head swirl, but all of a sudden John's hands were back on him, pressing his arms slightly, bringing him back to _now_. John. Such a devoted friend. Was he? Sherlock shivered. _I owe him this. He's helping. I want him. Whatever he wants in return, I must give him. _He sent him a pained, apologetic look.

John led his hands to his belt and helped his fingers unbuckle it. Sherlock felt something stir in his groin at the intimate contact – not to mention their hands were on a _belt _–and he fumbled a bit. Finally the belt joined the shirt on the floor, and he just had to get out of his trousers. He almost moaned in despair as he remembered _how _he had got out of them the last time, and bit his lips to stifle it. But John heard the whimper, and thought something had to be done. Very calmly, he let his hands fall off Sherlock's to his hips.

Sherlock shivered and panicked at the loss, but remained still, afraid that he'd do something wrong, afraid that John would realize how ridiculous he was – afraid that John would leave.

Gently, John grabbed the sides of his trousers, and tugged them down very, very slowly, lowering himself until he was kneeling in front of a frozen Sherlock.

"Don't... you don't have to do this..."

He didn't want John kneeling in front of him. All right, so maybe he did, but that was beside the point. He knew John wasn't gay. Such a gesture must have been humiliating for him, and he didn't want John to feel humiliated anymore. So he knelt down too.

John was so surprised he almost fell back.

"What–"

"Don't kneel down when I don't ask you to."

John's eyes widened comically and he stared. Sherlock was frowning like a child unhappy to have his mother do anything else but pay attention to him, and John had no idea where that had come from.

The detective let his head fall on John's shoulder with a soft thud to hide a blush he felt creeping on his cheeks.

"You really shouldn't be the one on your knees," he mumbled, burying his face further into the warmth. How did John manage to be so warm when he had spent the night naked on a couch?

"We can take turns," John replied half-jokingly, smiling through the black curls and running his hand through them. He would love to wash this hair, he thought as he drowned into the scent.

"Never."

John was roused from his reverie.

"Beg your pardon?"

"I look like a rat when my hair is wet, it's ridiculous. You're never seeing it."

John shook his head lovingly, tenderness filling his eyes.

"Idiot. _I _look like a rat even when they're dry."

"That's not true," protested Sherlock.

"Fine. We'll find out who looks worse."

"I said–"

"Come on, let's get into the shower," John interrupted, standing up. He didn't extend a hand to Sherlock, nor did he help him stand again, but his hand never left his friend's arm. He looked him in the eye.

"You can take off your boxers now."

Letting go of his arm, he set about taking off his own. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. How idiotic could he be? He hadn't realized until now that _that _piece of clothes would need to be removed too. _Obviously_. He bit his lower lip – which was getting redder and redder from the bad treatment every time – and decided not to think about it too much and get it over with. He took it off so fast he was surprised when he saw his boxers lying on the floor with his shirt and trousers.

_Get it over with_. What was he thinking? He was reacting to _John_ just like he'd reacted to _Moriarty_. He wanted to touch John and he did want to feel him. But he didn't want his body to be touched. Suddenly he recalled the sensation of the consulting criminal's hands on his face, stomach, buttocks, and he retched. The next second John was on him, covering his cheek and his chin with butterfly kisses, the back of his ear, his throat, then the neck and the shoulder. It was so full of warmth and fondness – Sherlock didn't want to think _of adoration – _that he couldn't stop the tears suddenly streaking down his face. John kissed them away, over and over again, until Sherlock, so full of contradictions, stepped back and gripped his arm tightly as if he were an anchor. John cupped his face.

"We don't have to do this, Sherlock. I'm sorry if you felt like I was forcing you to do anything."

"No!" he cried with something akin to terror in his voice. "I didn't... you're not... I want this. Please."

_Please don't leave me._ This was pathetic, and he hated himself for it. But he _was_ pathetic after all. Drying his tears with the back of his hands, he looked back at John with determination.

"I'm fine. Let's get into the shower."

And so they did. Sherlock turned on the water and sent John a questioning look to see if the temperature was good. John nodded and smiled reassuringly. He was worried, but he knew that he must not let Sherlock settle in a mindset where he despised his own body and refused to take showers. That wouldn't do. He was intimately convinced that the best way to help Sherlock right now was to stop him every time he tried to run away from the fear and to show him he still had control over things. Otherwise powerlessness and hopelessness would eventually overwhelm him, and John certainly never wanted to see that.

Sherlock was holding the shower, not really knowing what he should do with it. He was so confused he had no idea whether he should be fixing it above their heads, use it on John, or on himself, so he just stood there and waited awkwardly. John held back a chuckle and kissed him on the nose, because he was just too adorable for his own good. Sherlock's eyes widened with bewilderment.

"What do you usually wash first?" John asked.

"Hair..." Sherlock grumbled, looking away.

Before he knew it John's hand was back on his arm and had oriented the shower so it would run on Sherlock's head. Sherlock jumped and shut his eyes tight, grimacing under the hot water pouring over him. John tiptoed to push the locks back from his brow, caressing it softly. Sherlock shivered but didn't protest. He wanted nothing but to run away at this moment, yet it all felt surprisingly _good_. It didn't cross his mind that perhaps this was the very reason he wanted to run away in the first place.

Suddenly he realized that John had managed to trick him to get his hair wet, and he frowned, a pout on his face. John didn't notice and was startled when he felt Sherlock shift his arm so the water would be pouring on him instead. He laughed.

"Oh, you want to play?"

Sherlock bit his lip. It was so silly; this wasn't supposed to be arousing. But he _did _want to play, although it scared him senseless. John sneaked a hand around his waist and brought him closer. Sherlock gasped as his erection was pressed to John's. He hadn't even noticed his friend was hard. Truth be told, he hadn't wanted to look.

John's hand on his back went lower and lower until it was resting on his coccyx, teasing the line of his cheeks. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the wound in front of him, and he shifted the shower above their heads so it wouldn't pour too much on that side of John's body. With now both of his hands free, he let them roam on his friend's torso, tentatively at first, then more passionately by the second. John felt the air rush out of his lungs. Sherlock's hands were ridiculously talented to spot the most erogenous zones on his body and to test them until he knew exactly what points and what kind of touch or pressure elicited the most numerous or loud moans from him.

_Fine_, he thought_, have it your way. _

Sneaking his hands to the front, he played with Sherlock's hip joints, which he had noticed were uncommonly sensitive. Sherlock bit his lips so hard he drew blood, and John frowned at him. Slowly, in quite a predatory way, he leant in, brought Sherlock's face to his, and licked his lips. He smirked as he felt his friend grow harder, and decided to tease more, nibbling at the lower lip, running his tongue over the delicate flesh. His hands glided down his neck and to his torso, until they fell on his nipples and pinched them.

Sherlock jolted. He felt ready to burst and he was so hard it was getting painful. The previous night, he'd had a goal, and wanted to finish playing the double concerto before coming. But now, without the notes, without any piece to complete, he knew he wouldn't last long. Trembling, he tried to analyse his contradictory feelings of fear and excitement, desperation and desire. He still thought the whole affair was utterly ridiculous and that he really shouldn't be so scared and yet so yearning. He was a full grown man, for God's sake, and John must have found him stupid.

John was enjoying the hardness against his thigh and the wavering legs of his partner as he teased the two pink nipples unmercifully. He was finding Sherlock terribly endearing and was losing himself in the feel of his lips and of his body pressed against his. He could tell his friend wouldn't last long, and he was intent on making him orgasm on nipple stimulation alone. Sherlock was so new to this and his body was so damned sensitive that there was no need to rush things: in fact, John was very eager to put his virginity to good use. He'd never been with a virgin before, even less with a _male_ virgin.

"You're brilliant," he murmured against his lips, "you're so gifted and amazing and outstanding and..." _I love you so much. _

The words stayed stuck in his throat and choked him. He didn't dare utter them. Sherlock seemed very frightened about this whole love and relationship business. Friendship was new enough to him, and he was so afraid of losing theirs that he almost gave up on the physical experimenting. The last thing John wanted was to scare him away.

As he rubbed his thumbs over the now very red nipples and gave them a last twist, Sherlock cried out and arched his back, grinding his erection unintentionally against John's, puling as he came. His legs gave way under him and John caught him and pinned him to the wall before he could collapse onto the tiles, dizzy and completely undone. As he rode his orgasm, he felt John's arms holding him tight, and a wave of gratitude washed over him. He was too far gone to formulate any word at all, but he knew what he wanted to do. Leaning in the embrace, still whimpering softly as he came all over John's lower belly, he pressed his swollen lips to his.

The kiss was chaste and spontaneous. To Sherlock, it just felt right, and he couldn't find the words to put on the feeling that was overwhelming him. To John, it was such a reversal he stood stupefied, as if struck by lightning. He couldn't believe _Sherlock_ of all people would be... well, romantic enough to kiss as he orgasmed. Then again, he'd never imagined Sherlock kissing or orgasming at all. As the detective fell in his arms, basking in the dizziness of the afterglow, his head resting on his good shoulder, John was so moved his throat was tight and his eyes burning.

Hugging his partner tenderly, rocking their bodies slightly, he completely forgot his own erection and felt profoundly content. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to remember as he stood back up on his own, legs shaking. John smiled up at him, glowing.

"Shall we wash your hair now?"

"But you–"

"I'm fine, Sherlock."

"But–"

"Shh."

John leant in and kissed him. Wasn't it fine, since Sherlock had done it first? It was, right? Feeling the swollen lips against his, and Sherlock kissing back clumsily, he thought he was going to cry. Suddenly Sherlock was falling to his knees and John couldn't catch him on time. He panicked, believing he was passing out.

"Sherlock!"

His cry was turned into a croak when he felt a pair of lips on his very hard member.

"Oh God."

He had to lean in and put his forearms on the wall for support, regretting he'd just pinned Sherlock against it – it would have been easier the other way around.

"No, stop! You don't have to do this. Please. This is too much for you."

Sherlock snorted and it sent a jolt in the already throbbing manhood. John gasped.

"Too much _for me_?" he asked, his lips brushing the shaft, a hand sneaking up around his balls, cupping one testicle and massaging experimentally. John thought he'd come then and there, but he had more experience than Sherlock after all, and this wasn't his first blow job either. Moreover, he wasn't sure Sherlock realized what he was doing exactly, and he really didn't want to startle him or, worse, _disgust_ him by coming all over his face.

"Sherlock. Please. Are you even thinking?"

"Nope," came the drowsy reply, and John knew he was telling the truth.

Licking the precum off the tip of his member, tilting his head in puzzlement as he tasted it, Sherlock seemed completely oblivious to John's little moral dilemma. All he knew was that again, John had been taking care of him, and had serviced him when he didn't even manage to make him come. But he had mixed feelings about it. A part of him was absolutely terrified that John would end up being like Moriarty, that Sherlock wouldn't be able to give him pleasure and that he would no longer get off with him. Another part was frustrated that John had succeeded in making him come undone so fast. If they were playing, he'd definitely won the game, and Sherlock did _not_ like to lose.

John squealed as Sherlock poked his tongue and lapped his way up his shaft, curling under at the top and swirling it over his balls. He mouthed one and brought his fingertips to the top of his partner's manhood, drumming and teasing skilfully.

"Sherlock...!" John cried out.

"Mmh?"

The groan this simple hum earned him startled Sherlock, and he repeated it. Another groan, and John's legs were now vibrating with tension, his breathing difficult. Sherlock smirked and kept humming, testing different intensities, then shifted to the other ball, before returning to the shaft and swallowing it whole. John's head swirled and his hands turned to fists as he desperately leant on the wall for support. Sherlock didn't stay there for long, and soon pulled back, exploring the tip instead, sticking his tongue out and applying medium pressure.

"Sherlock... please..."

No longer capable of coherent thought, John only wished his partner would stop teasing. Sherlock seemed very satisfied with this outcome, not to mention the begging, which he found he enjoyed greatly. He had no idea what he was doing, but obviously John was pleased, and this reassured him a lot. He was still having a hard time being touched, because the vulnerability both excited him and frightened him, but being in control, he relished giving pleasure to his partner and having him melt under his touch.

But now that John was begging, he wasn't exactly sure _what_ he was asking for. He felt stupid to ask, but it would have been even more awful if he couldn't give him what he wanted.

"Um, John?"

John was panting, his arms tense and trembling against the wall, but Sherlock's worried tone was enough to bring him back to reality with a start.

"What?" he asked, panic in his voice. What had he been _thinking_? God, Sherlock was right, _he _was the one not thinking here. How could he let his _virgin_ friend who had just been _raped_ the previous day perform a fellatio on him? Stupid, stupid, stupid...

"Well... I... You see..." Sherlock stammered, then added in a little voice: "Care to be more specific?"

John blinked and tried to make sense of what he was saying. Then it hit him, and he burst out laughing.

"It's not funny!"

"Oh yes, it is," he retorted, unable to stop his giggles.

He was so busy laughing his heart out, finding the situation so absurd and so silly and yet so enticing, that he didn't notice the dark look and the offended pout on Sherlock's face. Suddenly his mouth was back on John's manhood, nibbling, licking and sucking none too gently, his hands cupping his balls and massaging them vigorously. John cried out in pain and pleasure and was astounded to realize how closely they were linked.

"Sher–"

Bobbing his head up and down, his friend wasn't listening at all. He remembered the way John had stroked his perineum the previous night and, parting his legs firmly, sneaked a hand in and spotted the perineal membrane. He smirked as John almost screamed. The doctor had never been touched there in his whole life. As a doctor, he knew it would feel good, but he always preferred to be in charge with the ladies and this was a spot that made you squirm and wriggle and babble when stimulated. John did all of those, and after a few seconds of Sherlock pumping him, came into his mouth. He didn't even have the time to warn him, so intense and breathtaking were the ministrations of his friend. He refused to let his legs give way under him, but was glad Sherlock was holding his hips firmly in place.

"Sherlock... you don't have to... swallow," he hissed, trying to catch his breath.

As expected of Sherlock, he didn't listen, and only let go of John's manhood when it was flaccid. The moment he sat back John's legs failed him and he ended up falling on Sherlock, whose protestations were muffled as he fell back. John let his head fall on his friend's torso and held on to him mechanically, as if he were a giant teddy bear.

"Sorry," he muttered, "your fault."

Sherlock blinked, then chuckled. Soon John was joining him and they were giggling like idiots on the bathroom's tiles.

"_You_ are _such_ a poor loser," John said between two giggles. "It's not a game, you know."

"If it's not a game, then why I am a poor _loser_, John?"

John smirked. Oh, this was going to be fun.

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**_tbc_**


	3. Eating 1

**A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to Anon – without your comment, I wouldn't have taken the time to update today. Thank you for reviewing! :)

oOo

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_**Chapter 3: **_**_Eating (1)_**

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The shower took much longer than expected.

Sherlock sulked for about thirty-two seconds because his hair was wet, before John effectively silenced him by besieging his neck and ears with fondles and kisses as he dried it. Then John had to stitch up his wound, and Sherlock insisted that he should stay. John accepted, provided that he kept still and quiet.

Stitching up your own wound wasn't a pleasant thing to do, especially when its location made a mirror necessary. Luckily, it was the left shoulder, and John was right-handed. When he started stitching, Sherlock shivered, and wondered why _this_ kind of pain didn't turn him on.

Every time the needle went through John's skin, he winced more than the doctor himself. John was observing his reflection in the mirror, was trying to distract himself from the pain by revelling in his partner's nervous expression. But at one point he had mercy upon him.

"Sherlock, you can wait outside if you want."

Sherlock shook his head silently, his eyes never leaving the wound. John realized he must have sounded quite patronizing and slapped himself for it mentally. Maybe Sherlock _was_ a child but the whole point was to show him he still had control over his life and wasn't – never would be – _worthless_. Treating him like a kid wouldn't help.

But if John was sometimes good at noticing this kind of things, he usually put them into practice quite poorly.

"Sherlock, why don't you go and prepare breakfast while I finish?"

Sherlock scoffed.

"But John, I _never_ cook or prepare food outside of my experiments, remember? I thought you wanted to have something edible this morning."

John rolled his eyes, smiling fondly at Sherlock's sulking face in the mirror. Another 10 minutes of suffering and winces later, the stitches were done and John was disinfecting the needle and putting away his first aid kit. When he turned to his partner, Sherlock's eyes shifted from his stitches to his face.

Slowly, he walked up to him, and leant forward tentatively until his lips were brushing against his right shoulder. John shivered and his eyes widened. Gingerly, Sherlock was tracing with butterfly kisses an imaginary wound, symmetrical to the one that had just been stitched up.

John closed his eyes and rested his head against Sherlock's voicelessly.

* * *

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"You have to eat something."

"I'm not hungry."

"Come on Sherlock, you haven't had anything since last... wait, when was the last time you ate?"

"Don't know. Don't keep track."

"_Sherlock_."

"It doesn't _matter_, John!"

"Yes it does! You've got to flesh out a bit!"

Sherlock's face fell but John didn't notice. When he turned back with toast, he only saw an inscrutable gaze fixed on him thoughtfully.

"Here. Just a piece."

"I don't want to."

"Sherlock..."

"I said no!"

John frowned, not understanding why his friend was snapping.

"What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Do I have to answer that exhaustively?"

Sherlock averted his gaze so he wouldn't see his friend's pained expression.

"Fine."

John put the plate on the table and walked out of the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, not even bothering to hide the panic in his voice.

"To my room," John replied heatedly. Then on second thought, in a quieter tone: "I'm not leaving."

Sherlock swallowed and clenched his fists as he heard the door close behind his friend. He glared daggers at the toast, as if _it_ were responsible for upsetting John.

"Don't you feel any remorse? Do you even realize your very existence is an insult?" he told it venomously.

"Hello boys! Are you up yet?"

Sherlock continued to glower at the toast as Mrs. Hudson entered their flat.

"Oh, Sherlock, dear. Where's John?"

"Up," he answered sullenly.

"Up?"

"Yes, up, Mrs. Hudson, as in upstairs."

She blinked, then shrugged and started fussing around the kitchen, grimacing at the various remains of Sherlock's experiments.

"Isn't he usually up by this time of the day?"

"Yes, up."

She tilted her head to the side.

"I meant awake, Sherlock."

"Yes. He's awake."

"Are you all right, dear?"

Then she saw the toast and stared.

"You made toast," she remarked, disbelieving.

"Yes, the toast!" he cried, suddenly jumping to his feet.

"Sherlock!"

"It's the culprit," he growled, sitting back heavily.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson murmured, fleeing, scurrying along back to her quarters.

When John came back downstairs an hour later, Sherlock was on the couch, his violin by his side, holding a cup of yellowish liquid and drinking through a straw, empty-faced. As John entered the room, his eyes lit up. The doctor sent him a weak smile and Sherlock scoffed. He put his glass down and picked his violin, pulling the strings tentatively, faking confidence.

John sighed and went to the kitchen. He froze. On the plate where he'd left two slices of toast, only one remained.

"Sherlock."

"Hum?"

"You've eaten."

"No. Mrs. Hudson did."

"Mrs. Hud... What?"

He came to sit next to him on the couch, a smirk on his face.

"So... Mrs. Hudson came up to eat our toast?"

"_Your_ toast. Not mine," Sherlock replied grumpily.

The doctor leant in and kissed him on the cheek just as Mrs. Hudson came in.

"Oh dear! I'm sorry for interrupting."

John blushed furiously and bolted up, while Sherlock remained sitting, unblinking.

"I was just coming to bring you that jam we talked about the other day, because I thought it might help with the toast..."

"... which you've eaten."

"What?"

"The toast, Mrs. Hudson, the toast!"

Completely lost, she turned to John with a puzzled look. He rolled his eyes.

"Thank you for the jam, Mrs. Hudson."

"I'll give you the recipe if you like it!" she chimed.

"Oh yes, please do," Sherlock insisted.

They both stared at him. He sent them one of the eerily sweet smiles he usually used on witnesses and suspects.

"Don't forget to lend him an apron. I'm sure jam can get quite sticky."

John gaped, and Mrs. Hudson wondered what had got into them.

"Right, dear. Well, I'll do just that. But don't forget, I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper!"

Once she'd left, Sherlock pointedly avoided John's stare, and stood up nervously, pacing back and forth like a tiger in a cage. John sat at the table and opened his laptop. It almost felt like any other non-case day. Except...

"So... you want to see me in an apron?" John said as if he were asking about the weather, eyes on his screen, typing his password.

"I'm not sure it's worth you making me eat the jam afterwards."

They exchanged poorly concealed amused glances, and broke out laughing.

"Oh? And tell me, what exactly would be worth it?"

"Eating jam? Nothing. It's just _sticky sugar_, how can people even _eat_ that?"

"Well let's see... Because it's sticky and sugary?"

They chuckled as Sherlock went back to the couch. He felt restless, and had absolutely no idea what was coming next. In fact he was quite nauseous, because he really hadn't wanted to eat anything, and swallowing the toast had been quite a feat. That, and...

"Sherlock, what's this?"

John was eyeing the empty cup with the straw suspiciously.

"An empty cup, John."

"Yes, thanks. What did you drink?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Had he done something wrong? He didn't want to upset John. Quite the contrary. _This is ridiculous. _

"Was this milk? With... _sugar_?"

"Whole milk. With honey."

John goggled. Then it hit him. _'You've got to flesh out a bit!'_

"Oh Sherlock..."

"Stop right there."

"But–"

"I don't know what you're going to say, but your voice is already so full of sympathy. I don't want it."

"I wasn't saying that to imply you were too _thin_! Well, you are, but..."

Sherlock glared, and John gulped.

"No, listen! I was talking as your doctor, not as your..."

He let the sentence hang in the air, at a loss. What was he supposed to say? Friend? Flatmate? _Lover_?

"... partner."

Sherlock snorted.

"How's that different?"

Leaving his laptop and dropping the act, John went up to him and slid an arm around his waist.

"Why did you want me to go to the hospital this morning?"

"Because you had a wound that needed stitches."

"Yes. Did your remark imply I was now unattractive and that if I wasn't stitched up..."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Sherlock cut in, trying to sneak away.

"Who's being ridiculous?" John retorted, holding him firmly in place.

Sherlock swallowed and started fidgeting.

"Let go."

"You can push me away."

_No I can't_, he thought as he began to shake. _You'll be disappointed. You won't want me anymore._

_You'll leave._

Distraught, Sherlock leant in and kissed John with desperation. _Please. _The trembling got worse as he was reminded of a very similar situation in which his every move could mean either Moriarty's contentment and John's safety, or the madman's dissatisfaction and John's demise. With a range of torture techniques in between.

"Please," he murmured.

John was appalled at what he'd done.

"Sherlock. Sherlock! Stay with me. What were you thinking just now? Please tell me what you're thinking."

"Nothing, John. It's nothing."

But John knew. He'd been on the receiving end of that kind of kiss before and it meant only one thing: _Please don't leave me, I'll do anything, anything at all, but please, please don't leave. _What had he said? Where had he gone wrong? As he was replaying the dialogue in his mind, it suddenly dawned on him.

_He couldn't push me away. _

"Oh God I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

He stepped back, letting go. Sherlock felt cold at the loss of contact, but didn't say a word. John bit his lip. He couldn't let this happen. He wouldn't. There was only one thing he could think of.

_If he's low, get lower than him. _

Swallowing his pride, which didn't matter in the least at the moment, he slowly fell to his knees.

"Please forgive me."

Sherlock's eyes widened but John, from his submissive position, couldn't observe his face. He didn't see it fill with surprise, nor turn into a frown. Sherlock was puzzled, because he wasn't even aroused by the situation. He expected to feel either nothing, or at least a little bit of excitement from the power play. But he didn't.

While was trying to figure out how this was any different from when John had been on his knees in the bathroom this morning, his flatmate was waiting apparently stoically but actually overwhelmed with dread. He was treading on thin ice and he knew it. Not only was Sherlock a rape victim, but he'd never been very sociable even before the event – not a sociopath, certainly, but probably mild Asperger's syndrome (of course, Sherlock had found high-functioning sociopathy more appealing than high-functioning autism). John didn't need to put him into defined medical categories though, and really didn't care. All that mattered was that now even more than before, Sherlock would be hypersensitive to every word, every facial expression, every gesture... More than that: with his deducing skills, he'd be hypersensitive to pretty much anything, things ordinary people wouldn't even notice. Yes, he was broken, but his intellectual capacities hadn't been impaired, even if he didn't realize it himself. Now, as ever, it would be impossible to lie to him.

It took Sherlock about thirty seconds to understand: it wasn't arousing because John felt miserable. His stance was one of guilt, and not of pain, humiliation and so on, from which one could derive pleasure. Sherlock wasn't the one who'd made him kneel down: _I'm low, so he got lower_.

"_I don't enjoy this kind of begging_," he quoted smugly.

John looked up at him, bewildered. He was amazed to see the detective _smirking_ down at him.

"What did I miss?"

"Oh, nothing particular. Just the most important thing."

John arched an eyebrow, and it looked quite silly with him still kneeling on the floor.

"Which is?"

Sherlock ignored him and went into the kitchen. John heard him fumbling around and soon he was back with the plate on which the last toast lay, along with the jam Mrs. Hudson had brought earlier.

"You haven't eaten yet."

John blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"Nope. You'll be excused once you've eaten your toast."

Spreading jam all over the bread, Sherlock didn't notice the little smile on John's lips. _Cold toast isn't really good, but oh well_...

Sherlock held his arm down until the toast met his friend's lips.

"Eat."

"Can't I stand up?"

"I never said you couldn't."

"But you brought this here."

"John, there are a number of situations in which I'd see you as very... stimulating, but you on your knees eating toast in the middle of our living-room isn't one of them," Sherlock cut in, something like impatience in his voice.

John laughed and stood up, biting in the toast. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously.

"What's so funny?"

"You are."

"Oh, so I'm too thin and now I'm funny. You really must have bad taste," he remarked as he fell back on the couch, obviously vexed.

John smirked, swallowing the rest of the toast.

"You're such a tosser."

He came and straddled his sulking flatmate.

"Well, I'll add that to the list."

"Insufferable."

"Thanks."

"Posh."

"That's not an insult, you know."

"Candid."

"I'm not..."

Sherlock squealed as his protest was muffled with a kiss.

"Insatiable," John murmured against his lips.

"You kissed me!"

"Brilliant deduction," John commented sarcastically. But Sherlock saw the flash of doubt and fear in his eyes, and he added sullenly:

"You've just had jam. I thought I made it perfectly clear that I don't–"

This time the kiss that interrupted him was much deeper than the previous one, and Sherlock felt his entire body melt again. John's fingers were in his hair, pulling his head back slightly, his other hand in the crook of his back, his groin pressed against Sherlock's. The taste of the jam didn't even bother him anymore. His pupils dilated and he fluttered under John's grip until the lack of air made them break the contact, panting.

"I want to try something," Sherlock said in one breath.

"An experiment?"

He nodded. John closed his eyes.

"Fine. What do you want to do?"

"I want to cover you in jam and see if I can eat it."

Silence. John blinked.

"... You want to _what_?"

Sherlock pulled one of his sweet smiles, trying to look reassuring, but John found it rather wolfish.

"You're joking."

"Of course not."

"Where did _that_ come from?"

"Just now... I didn't find it disgusting."

"Well good, I'm glad you don't find me disgusting when I kiss y–"

"Don't be daft, John. I hate jam. Yet it didn't bother me when it was... on you," he finished, for lack of a better phrasing.

Then he cocked an eyebrow and sent his partner a questioning look.

"So? Can I?"

"This is such a waste..." John groaned.

"We'll see about that."

"Are we doing this on the _couch?"_

Sherlock tilted his head to the side.

"My bed, then?"

John sighed dramatically and stood up, quickly walking to Sherlock's room.

"Fine! But hurry up before I change my mind!" Then to himself: "God, this is ridiculous... _this_ is definitely the most ridiculous thing I've ever done, and I've done quite a few thanks to..."

"Are you talking to yourself about _me_, John?"

The ex-soldier sent him his most imposing glare, but Sherlock was so excited about the bloody jam he didn't pay attention at all. John stripped swiftly before he could think too much about what he was doing. He'd played with honey before, but _he_ had been doing the licking, except for the... well, blow job. But obviously Sherlock wanted him _covered_ in jam and that felt more like being an offered meal than anything.

"Are you going to use the whole jar?"

"It's probably not going to be enough, but I used the other one to keep fingers in," he grumbled miserably.

_God help me, I'm in love with a madman_, John thought as he lied on the bed and closed his eyes.

"Is there any spot you'd like me to start with?"

"Don't ask," John growled, feeling more stupid by the second.

Sherlock shrugged.

"All right. Close you eyes. I don't want you to open them until we're done."

John stared.

"Would it help if I tied you up?" Sherlock added innocently.

"You are _not_ tying me up!"

"Fine, fine... Just close your eyes."

John took a deep breath and complied. A few seconds later, he felt Sherlock's hands on his throat, spreading jam all over his neck and under his ears. This wasn't what he'd expected. Nor had he expected Sherlock's first kisses to be on his eyelids either: a silent 'thank you'.

The next moment he was licking tentatively the very sensitive skin under his ear, and John moaned. This seemed to be a good enough encouragement for Sherlock, who nibbled the lobe merrily. From then onwards he seemed much more at ease, smothering the exposed throat with nips, licks and kisses, sending shivers throughout John's body, electrifying his skin. He was quick and precise and John was feeling positively besieged and couldn't help but squirm and moan under the attack. Sherlock's ministrations were so uncommon that they were _new_ to John and wonderfully _thrilling_. He no longer felt stupid, and only knew he wanted more.

Sherlock sucking the skin near his jugular vein sent a jolt right to his groin, and John realized that he was getting aroused because he felt vulnerable. Sherlock could have killed him in a bite. The neck and throat were such sensitive zones, yet he only felt safe enough to let his sexual partners touch there when they were very soft, gentle women. Harmless.

There was nothing harmless about Sherlock.

Sherlock meant danger and adventure and near-death situations.

Sherlock couldn't live without the thrill, and neither could John.

Sherlock was reckless and got off by putting his life on the line to prove he was clever.

_And that's why you're so addictive, _John thought.

He squealed as Sherlock's body brushed against his erection and moaned at the loss of contact. It was such an unnerving experience, not to know where he would be touched next. He knew Sherlock would tease, and obviously wouldn't touch him where he most wanted to be touched right now, but he wondered if he'd be merciful enough not to delay it too much.

Suddenly he felt a tongue lap up the sole of his right foot, while a jam-coated hand palmed his left one.

He yelped and bit his lower lip fiercely, desperately trying to muffle his moans.

_Not merciful, then... _

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**_tbc_**


	4. Eating 2

A/N: Thank you to all my reviewers! You guys keep me going :) So here's part 2 of 'Eating'. I do _not_ have a jam kink by the way... far from it xD But I think anything could be turned into a kink with those boys. Hope you enjoy reading ;)

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_**Chapter 4: Eating (2)**_

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He squealed as Sherlock's body brushed against his erection and moaned at the loss of contact. It was such an unnerving experience, not to know where he would be touched next. He was certain Sherlock would tease, and obviously wouldn't touch him where he most wanted to be touched right now, but he wondered if he'd be merciful enough not to delay it too much.

Suddenly he felt a tongue lap up the sole of his right foot, while a jam-coated hand palmed his left one. He yelped and bit his lower lip fiercely, desperately trying to muffle his moans.

_Not merciful, then. _

Sherlock slid his fingers between his toes and started massaging his sole with his thumb in a way that was both tickling and arousing. _Exploring_, John thought. With his other hand he spread jam on the left foot and licked tentatively, swirling the squirmy tip of his tongue over the coated skin. John let out a little cry of surprise and arched his back, squirming under the tantalising licking and thumbing. But Sherlock would have none of it. Grabbing his ankles, he held his feet onto the mattress forcefully, and bit the big toe he was sucking in warning.

"Sherlock!" John protested. He was appalled to hear how wanton his own voice sounded, and groaned.

But his protest seemed to have some effect, as Sherlock suddenly stopped his ministrations. John bit his lips. Had there been too much reprobation in his tone? He was about to open his eyes and reassure his partner when...

"Say that again."

John's heart missed a beat.

"... What?"

"My name. Say it again."

The air was squeezed out of John's lungs and he blushed furiously.

"B.. but... what... you..." he babbled.

"_My name_, John," came the demanding voice, along with a bite.

"Sherlock!" John moaned.

He could almost feel the smirk against the sole of his foot and fidgeted, his neglected hard-on becoming more difficult to ignore by the second. Sherlock was now alternatively nibbling and licking, pinching and stroking, pressing and caressing. _Testing_.

"_Again."_

"Sherlock..." John groaned weakly.

"_Again!" _he said running his jam-coated hand swiftly up his leg and grabbing his thigh.

"_Sherlock!_ Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock..."

Now that he was babbling, Sherlock seemed satisfied and kissed his foot reverently, sneaking a hand up his calf to pet the crook behind his knee. He licked his lips clean and gave a peck on the tip of John's manhood.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, please..."

"My _name_, John," he susurrated, crawling on the bed to kiss his partner's belly that was trembling in raptures.

"Sherlock... Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock _Sherlock_..."

"Good," Sherlock murmured, a smile in his voice.

Sedulously avoiding the groin and thighs, he spread jam under John's knee with taunting strokes.

It was a sweet torment and John was now entirely failing to maintain a semblance of control. He wasn't dazed enough not to realize how fluttered and depraved his chanting was, and at first he had to force himself to utter the beloved name in such a voice. He actually had to _want_ to say it, not just let it out, because it didn't come naturally. He wasn't one to beg, and if he was always a gentleman, this kind of worship was far beyond his ground. But the thought that Sherlock derived pleasure from his babble was enough to compensate the shame.

Soon the name came trippingly on the tongue. When Sherlock started licking the crook at the back of his knee between the calf and thigh, he jolted with a groan. He didn't see his partner frown, but was well aware of the hand that pressed his thigh back into the mattress firmly, palpating the flesh with wonder, titillating the skin until John felt his blood turn to liquid fire.

"Sh... Sherlock, won't you stop teasing already?"

"Umm... Nope."

He bit the sensitive flesh of the crook and sucked. John couldn't believe how silly it was that a love-bite in such a place made him moan so lustfully.

"John?"

"Uh...?" John emitted, crazed with need.

"Won't you keep saying my name?"

The tone was almost pleading and there was so much insecurity in that voice that John's eyes snapped open. He looked down and the sight of Sherlock was almost enough to push him over the edge. His lips were red and swollen, his lower face completely covered in jam, his hair dishevelled. He blushed.

"Close your eyes!"

John chuckled, beaming.

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock..."

John felt a pair of lips devotedly kissing the inside of his thigh and he shivered. He was gripping the sheets tightly so as to refrain from touching himself. He desperately wanted relief, but knew that if he got it by his own hand, Sherlock would think he wasn't good enough – which was very, _very_ far from the truth. His going back and forth between tentativeness and domineering boldness was so endearing John thought he'd never get enough.

Suddenly he felt a hand palm his right fist gingerly and Sherlock's mouth licking its way up his thigh and hip, sparking fire on the skin that wasn't used to be thus stimulated. Everything Sherlock was trying on him felt so new to his body that John wondered how come he'd missed that during his entire sexually active life.

When his partner started nibbling his curled fingers, John relaxed his arm and let his hand open in surrender to the touch. Sherlock kissed in thanks and lapped the exposed palm like a dog would his owner's. John shivered. Soon his whole arm was covered in jam and he heard the jar being tossed to the floor. He squirmed.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock... please... _please_ touch me?"

"I thought I'd been doing that for a while now, John," Sherlock commented breathlessly before he began to suck on John's fingers suggestively. John groaned and tried to take his hand away.

"Sherlock!"

He gasped as his partner grabbed his wrists and pinned them securely on each side of his head. He was so startled he opened his eyes, which widened at the sight of a frowning Sherlock whose pupils were dark with lust.

"I'm not done with you," he growled.

Abruptly leaning in he kissed him forcefully, ravaging his mouth and sucking the air out of his lungs while he slid his thigh between the doctor's legs, parting them roughly and rubbing his knee against his groin. John moaned helplessly into the kiss, the touch sending electricity throughout his body. He went up in flames, the heat and pleasure so intense it almost hurt. When Sherlock broke the suffocating kiss, John was seeing starlike shards of light, feeling like a teenager all over again.

The detective kissed his way back to the jam-coated arm, mouthing the shoulder, nibbling the elbow and suckling at the wrist where John's pulse was hammering. Still pressing his knee to his partner's now throbbing hard-on, he lapped and licked the inner arm where the skin was most sensitive, lacing his fingers with John's and keeping him securely pinned onto the bed.

"Say my name."

"Sherlock... Sher... Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock!_"

He screamed as the overly talented tongue started playing with his armpit and he arched his back, unintentionally pressing his groin more tightly against his partner's knee, turning his cry into a moan.

"Sh... Sherlock, stop it! it's dirty..."

"You've just taken a shower, John," Sherlock murmured against him, nuzzling up against the hair, his burning breath inflaming John to distraction.

"And I'm damn well gonna need another one," he grumbled.

Sherlock sneaked his right arm under John's back, his hand resting behind his neck, fondling his nape. The ex-soldier felt his cheeks burn as he was being treated like some breakable woman, but didn't have time to protest as Sherlock's mouth left his arm and resumed licking his palm and sucking his fingers.

"Sherlock! Please, Sherlock, Sherlock... "

The detective was now pounding into the bed, grinding his thigh and knee against John's groin rhythmically. The sounds they made and the creaking of the bed were so suggestive John could no longer take it and wrapped his free arm around his friend's torso, spreading his legs lewdly and thrusting his hips with fervour in a desperate attempt to get more contact, more friction, more...

"Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock _Sherlock..."_

Sherlock was too busy sucking his fingers and mouthing his hand whole to answer his delirious pleas, but he shifted _just so_ to rub his knee against _the_ most erogenous spot on his partner's body and John entirely lost it.

"More give me more please please _please_ Sherlock I need more I want you so much _I love you!_"

He screamed wildly, spreading his legs as wide as he could and giving one last thrust, coming all over Sherlock's trousers. The wave of incandescent pleasure hit him so hard he was momentarily knocked out, his eyes rolling back, his whole body convulsing. Sherlock held him tight, rocking his abandoned figure soothingly as John rode one of the best orgasms he'd ever had.

Finally the spasms decreased in number and intensity and soon he went blissfully limp in his lover's embrace. _Lover_... He snapped back to reality with a start. "_I love you!" _Oh God. He'd said it, hadn't he? Maybe Sherlock hadn't noticed... _idiot! Sherlock __**always**__ notices. _He groaned.

"John? Are you all right?"

The tone was worried, and a little shaky too. _Shaky_? Oh what had he done? John rolled on the bed to get a better look at Sherlock's face. He was breathless and blushing, his brow wet with perspiration, basking in the afterglow of... wait.

"Sherlock, did you..."

"Shut up," he growled, burying his face into the pillow, his ears turning red. John was incredibly relieved to see he hadn't been shocked or upset by the confession (which really was no secret – but saying it was something else entirely). Melting, he nuzzled up to him lovingly, a smirk on his lips.

"Did you come just from seeing me coming, Sherlock?" he teased.

"Shut up!" the other mumbled against the pillow. John chuckled and pulled it from under him, gently pushing his curls back from his face, toying with a lock. Sherlock glared, attempting to look frightening and failing miserably. He was so adorable with his pout and his pink cheeks John felt compelled to smother the sulking face with butterfly kisses.

"Stop it! If you think kisses are going to.. humpff!"

Kisses did.

* * *

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* * *

It was already afternoon when they got out of their second shower. They had come to a mutual agreement they should shower alone this time, or they'd never get anything done. To which Sherlock had sulked and said: 'There is nothing to do anyway.'

As he was typing one of their last cases for the blog, John couldn't help but wonder if that was part of the reason his flatmate was so... affectionate. Because there was nothing else to do. John closed his eyes and felt a twinge in his chest. Well, it was no use racking his brain about it anyway. They'd see how it'd turn out when Sherlock would get a case.

At this very moment they heard someone run up the stairs and Lestrade burst into their living-room. Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, sulking because John had told him there would be no more experiment for today – at least not until tonight. When he saw the D.I., his face lit up.

"Hello you two."

"Hi Greg," John said as he stood up to greet him. "What brings you here?"

He hoped his tone didn't sound too anxious. A case would be good for Sherlock after all.

"Well, I'd like to have your opinion on a case," he told Sherlock, who left his couch to grab the file Lestrade was presenting him.

"Only my opinion?" he asked smugly.

"Your _help_, genius. There's been a murder. John Openshaw, son of Joseph Openshaw and nephew of Elias Openshaw."

"And that is relevant because...?" John inquired.

"They're both dead," Sherlock indicated, frowning.

"Yes. John Openshaw came to us a few days ago, saying both his uncle and father had died mysteriously after having received five orange pips in an envelope by the post."

"What?" John said, disbelieving.

Lestrade shrugged.

"Of course we looked into it, but there was nothing to go on. His uncle drowned himself and his father fell from a cliff."

Sherlock gave back the file.

"Not interested."

"What? Sherlock, just a moment ago you were complaining there was nothing to do!"

"I wasn't complaining," he replied curtly. Then in a sullen tone: "There could have been _something..."_

Lestrade goggled and John took a deep breath to restrain from laughing.

"Furthermore you don't need me for that case. You already have a lead and it's not something that requires my talent."

"How can you..."

"Because John Openshaw died two days ago and you only decided to see me today, in the afternoon. If you truly needed me you'd have come in the morning because you'd have thought this over during the night, but you didn't. You even came with a _file_, which means you had time to prepare one. You didn't come here as a matter of urgency, you _planned_ it. Now why would you do that? Because someone would ask you to. Someone who couldn't or wouldn't come himself, but thought sending a _guardian_ would–"

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John indignantly.

Lestrade's face darkened.

"You're such an idiot. Yes, you're right, I don't need you for this case, although you would certainly help me gain some time and catch the killer sooner. I did plan it. But I _wasn't _contacted by your brother. I came because I was _worried_ about you. I can see it was quite unnecessary."

He turned around and left the flat crossly.

John looked at Sherlock.

"What is _wrong_ with you? He was truly worried! You didn't have to send him away like this."

"I didn't send him away, I only told the tru–"

"Oh yeah, well that was brilliant."

"So what if I was rude? Aren't I always?" Sherlock snapped.

"Yes. You are."

John took his jacket and walked to the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked tensely.

"After him. To _apologise!_"

He didn't bother to close the door behind him.

Sherlock stared at the empty chair in which John had been sitting just a moment ago and shivered. It hurt. Had he really 'hurt' Lestrade? Did 'hurt' feel like this? He hadn't done anything wrong, he'd just deduced and...

He froze. He'd just deduced and... he'd been wrong. His conclusion hadn't been correct. A wave of nausea hit him and he felt fear gnawing in the pit of his stomach. He'd failed. At something as simple as deducing _Lestrade_. Had he really become that worthless?

Pacing nervously around the room, he tried to calm himself down. So what if he'd been wrong? It had happened before, especially when concerning people's _feelings_. But what about criminals, then? What about _cases_?

He stopped dead in his tracks. _Cases_. Of course. All the information from the file the D.I. had just showed him flashed before his eyes.

John had to run after the police car – had he been less irritated with Sherlock, he probably wouldn't have bothered. Lestrade lowered his windowpane but didn't get out of the car.

"Look, I'm sorry. You know how he is. He's just..."

"A total prick, yes. I'm glad to see he's his old usual self again."

John bit his lips.

"He isn't exactly... Listen, I think we're going to have to be patient with him."

"Aren't we always," Lestrade growled.

John laughed.

"Yeah, we are, aren't we?" Then more seriously: "I'm sorry he snapped at you. I'm sure he is too."

"I highly doubt that. Whatever. When I get a good, dreadful and confusing murder, I'll be sure to come by," he said with a little smile.

"Please do," the doctor replied, grinning back.

"Oh, and John? Take care of yourself, mate. I know you're taking good care of _him_, but..."

"I'm fine, Greg. Better than fine."

Lestrade shrugged, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.

John walked back up the street and as he entered 221B, ran into Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh hello dear! I just came back from Mrs. Turner's. How was your afternoon? Did you try the jam?"

John blushed and stammered:

"Oh... yeah. Yeah, very good, great."

"I'll give you the recipe then!"

"Yes... yes please do!" he said running up the stairs. "Good evening Mrs. Hudson!"

"Oh dear." She shook her head and scurried back into her home.

"Sherlock!" John called as he burst in the living-room. The lights were on but Sherlock was no longer on the couch. "Sherlock?"

He went to the kitchen, checked the room and bathroom... Nothing. Filled with a sense of dread, he ran upstairs to his own bedroom.

"Sherlock?"

But it was empty. John suddenly felt very cold. Very guilty, too.

"Oh Sherlock... where have you gone?"

* * *

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**_tbc_**


	5. Searching 1

**A/N: **The mystery plot is very loosely based on Arthur Conan Doyle's _Adventure of the Five Orange Pips_. Hope you enjoy! As always, reviewers are loved :)

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* * *

_**Chapter **__**5**__**: **_**_Searching (1)_**

* * *

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John was running down the street, dialling Sherlock's number over and over again, before remembering he'd _confiscated _his phone that morning in case Mycroft tried to pry. He still couldn't believe Sherlock would just vanish like that after what they'd had. Thinking back on the sex and the jam, John could still feel the kisses given with reverence on his foot and stomach, the touch full of wonder that had sometimes seemed almost... loving. What could possibly have happened for Sherlock to rush out like that without a second thought for John? The doctor could see only one explanation: Sherlock had been more hurt by their little argument than he'd thought, and was now changing his mind, running away and... _God knows_ what he intended to do.

John was very angry with his... whatever Sherlock was to him now, but fear overrode his irritation. Before all this ordeal he wouldn't have worried so much about his friend going off without warning, and would merely have felt annoyed and left out. But things had changed. He didn't trust Sherlock to take care of his own life. The idea was absurd but John knew the consulting detective hadn't been far from offing himself. _And that was just yesterday_, he thought bitterly.

Truth be told, with hindsight he wasn't sure Sherlock was the type to commit suicide. Or was he? What kind of 'type' would fit Sherlock anyway? He'd kept surprising John for the last thirty-six hours or so. His dance had fascinated him, his disappearance had terrified him – and never before had he thought of Sherlock as a danger to himself. Then he'd come rushing to the hospital, believing something had happened to John, and the doctor had never seen him more broken, not even during the Baskerville case. Then he just went on from surprise to surprise.

Sherlock stopping to talk.

Sherlock spreading his legs on his bed to let him have his way, face blank.

Sherlock letting go of the gun to come up to him and embrace him.

Sherlock kissing and sucking and biting his scar and stitches, making a mess.

Sherlock playing the violin piece he associated with him most while he was dancing.

Sherlock reacting to the belt.

Sherlock demanding more.

Sherlock reaching his climax with a whimper.

Sherlock being _shy_ the next morning.

Sherlock confessing his friendship as if he were proposing.

Sherlock on his knees in the shower.

Sherlock finding a way to eat jam.

Sherlock coming just from the sight of _him_ coming.

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_...

He had to find him.

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

While John was leaving 221B in a frenzy, Sherlock was already buying a ticket at Victoria Station and catching a train bound for Horsham.

The ride wasn't long, but enough for the consulting detective to drown in his own thoughts. He was trying to focus on the case, but it was so easy he knew he'd figured out everything before he even got to Horsham. Just needed a bit more proof for Lestrade, though.

Lestrade. It wasn't the first time he'd snapped at the man. So why had John been so angry? He was usually upset when he was a prick with Mrs. Hudson or Molly, and Sherlock thought of it as John's natural gallantry. But he didn't usually get so irritated from Sherlock just refusing a case.

_Right_. Except that hadn't been a case. Just as he'd deduced, Lestrade had come because he was _worried_. Why was he worried? What had John told him? Sherlock couldn't bear the thought of the whole yard laughing at him or sending him pitying looks because he'd been...

He shivered. He had managed to annoy both Lestrade and John in the span of a minute. He wasn't too worried about Lestrade, because he was quite certain bringing him the culprit on a platter would be enough to be forgiven, but John...? Memories flashed before his eyes and he fidgeted a bit in his seat. He would never have guessed that one day he'd find his flatmate so beautiful. It truly was the word, he thought, remembering John's face as he lay back in rapture, coming completely undone in his arms. _'I love you!'_

Sherlock swallowed with difficulty as he tried to concentrate on the landscape outside the window. He'd heard the words perfectly well, thank you very much. But what was he supposed to answer? He'd been so shocked to hear it that it had rendered him speechless. That, and John spreading his legs under him and screaming as he came all over him. _Beautiful_. He blushed furiously and fixed his gaze on the scenery in an awkward manner. _God, this is so stupid. _

But then he'd wondered. Had John expected him to say "me too"? Was that why he'd refused any other experiment before the night, and also the reason he'd snapped so easily and ran after Lestrade? Sherlock considered the thought. If love was purely physiological, then he definitely loved John. His body reacted to him even more than it had to Irene Adler – and he'd definitely been attracted to her. But John was above all his friend. Flatmate. Colleague. He was just so much more than Sherlock's image of a lover that he wasn't quite sure the word fit him.

All he knew was that now he'd met him, he wouldn't be complete without him. In a very basic, practical sense of course: John was his partner in Work and his blogger. He was amazing as a conductor of light and Sherlock found he made his own genius even greater. He recorded every case they did, always taking notes, being his biographer and very first admirer, bestowing sense and meaning on his life. Naturally it was nothing logical, and what the detective did was nothing like the romantic adventures John described on his blog. What he did was a science, that of deduction, but John didn't seem to care much for that and focused on unnecessary details instead – what he knew and didn't know, what he did and why he did things – always interpreting Sherlock's actions very freely, making him look _human_. Sherlock didn't think he was very human, but John told facts and then wrote words that didn't make sense to Sherlock but that made him seem... human. And he could almost believe him.

In any case Sherlock felt somehow _fuller_ with John around. It wasn't very rational, but if he wished to rationalize, then he'd say that John was his doctor and kept his health in check, his colleague who protected him when the need arose, his blogger who brought more clients and so more cases, chasing the boredom away. He was so much part of his life that Sherlock kept talking to him even when he was no longer in the room. His presence always surrounded him.

Having John confess to him had made Sherlock very scared and very happy all at once. Scared, because he had no idea what the proper behaviour was in such situations, but he was pretty sure he'd messed up since he hadn't answered anything, almost passing out from the orgasm, and too knocked out afterwards to explain. Not that he knew how he could have explained what he felt. He wasn't even sure himself.

He'd been happy, though, because he'd felt relief. If John loved him, he was more likely to stay. His joy had been short-lived however, when he realized that unlike friendship, love was rarely very lasting, except in books. John was straight, and Sherlock couldn't imagine him not wanting children. He'd marry someone eventually and build a family. He'd leave.

If he was straight, how could he tell Sherlock he loved him? The detective knew it hadn't been a lie – the cry had been too pure, too raw. Unalloyed. That didn't mean however that John was right. He believed what he was saying, but how could he be so sure it was love? Obviously, because of the sex. So John loved him because of the sex. Perfectly logical assumption.

Well, he probably loved him as a friend, too, or he wouldn't have put up with him till now. But he _did_ say that he wanted him from day one. Would he stay, then? Now that he'd had him? Or would it have been better if he always kept hoping, having a reason to stay? What if he grew bored? Sherlock shivered. What if _he_ himself grew bored? He dismissed the thought. John could never be boring, because even when he was (and he had been, at times), he wasn't. That was perfectly logical, too.

_No_, it wasn't. And that was the problem. John wasn't logical at all. He wanted the thrill and needed Sherlock for that, fine. But he was also a very, _very_ proud man and Sherlock certainly didn't stroke his ego, quite the contrary. Yet he continued being his flatmate. John wasn't one to trust people easily, yet he'd trusted _him_ of all people, when no one else did. Nobody was ever sure with him, and Sherlock was used to it by now. People doubting him. But John didn't, ever. John called him an idiot for putting his life on the line just to prove he was clever, but he didn't call him a psychopath. He even disagreed with his own assertion of high-functioning sociopathy. John trusted him, would trust him with his life – and that terrified Sherlock who was at a loss as to what to do with such faith.

John put too much hope into him, admired him far too greatly. Sherlock just knew he'd disappoint him one day – irreversibly. One time too many. And if Sherlock thought he could deal with a straight John leaving him for a wife and children, he knew he wouldn't bear it if John just turned away from him, and left him _because of him_. Because of what he was. A freak – never a hero.

As he felt something sink inside his chest, he shook his head and tried to get a grip, distracting himself with the case at hand.

John Openshaw lived in Horsham but he was killed near Waterloo Bridge so he was followed.

Elias Openshaw was killed in Horsham Park Duck Pond.

Joseph Openshaw was killed on Portsdown Hill where he'd gone to visit an old friend.

The question was : why did John Openshaw come to the police in London ? Because he was not believed in Horsham. The killer must have thought there was some danger for him, since he didn't wait for John's return and followed him to London to get rid of the threat. Elias was killed because he was to give the killer some papers which he burnt in challenge. Joseph was killed because he was explicitly asked to give those papers back, but obviously couldn't since they had been destroyed. John was merely the next on the list, with the same impossibility to comply. Fortunately for him, Sherlock thought, he didn't have any children. Well, 'fortunately'...

John's grandparents divorced when their sons were very young still, and Mr. Openshaw moved to Texas bringing little Elias with him, while the mother stayed in England with Joseph.

Elias Openshaw came back from the States in the 1970s, not liking the turn things took after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act in 1965, it seems. _Segregationist, then._ He moved to Sussex where his brother Joseph still lived, along with his friend James Calhoun, a university pal, and they opened the Lone Star. Joseph, on the other hand, had become a history teacher. After his first wife's demise from illness, he was left with little John who was only 5 at the time, and two years later he remarried. His second wife was his colleague Adanna Ndiaye, who specialized in Africa's Modern History. The two brothers, who weren't very close to begin with, stopped talking to each other altogether after the wedding, but little John was a boy much to Elias's liking and he always welcomed his brother's kid whether at home or in the Lone Star. John was well-known among the clients and spent more time with his uncle than with his own father, although he loved his stepmother very dearly.

Three years after her wedding with Joseph Openshaw, Adanna Ndiaye went missing and was never to be found. It was a blow to the poor man, who could no longer keep up his job as a teacher and opened a small bookshop. His brother, Elias, worried for his brother's health after his loss, dropped his position as co-founder of the Lone Star, and let Calhoun handle it alone, while he henceforth worked at the bookshop with Joseph. This lovely reunion of the two brothers who heartily disliked each other didn't seem to bother anyone. _Idiots_, Sherlock thought. They believed it was only natural they'd reconcile when Joseph was so depressed and couldn't take care of his son anymore – they were brothers, after all. Nobody considered it the other way round : that perhaps Elias had wanted to leave the Lone Star, and not to help his brother. John had told the police in his report that he didn't go to the bar so much after that – nor did his uncle. It didn't strike anyone as strange that the two best friends, Elias and James Calhoun, would grow apart so suddenly and for no other reason than Elias changing jobs.

The night he received the orange pips, Elias, in a fit of rage, burnt a whole case of papers from his student days in Texas, then went out. He never came back, and was found the next day drowned in Horsham Park Duck Pond. The police concluded it was an accident, as the body they found was that of a drunk man. Only John had witnessed the reception of the peculiar letter, for he was, as usual, hanging around his uncle's place that night. He saw his uncle's rage. But no one took him seriously, all the more so as the envelope and the pips were never found when they searched the flat. John himself was so shaken he ended up believing he might have invented it all.

That is, until his father received the very same warning, this time with a few typed words : _Put the papers on the parking meter. _There was only one parking meter they could think of, which was in front of the bookshop. The problem was, they no longer had said papers. Joseph Openshaw didn't take it seriously and was found dead the next day in Portsdown Hill where he'd gone to visit an old friend.

This time John Openshaw could show the police the five orange pips, but his father had just fallen at twilight over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the neighbourhood, so the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of 'death from accidental causes'. Nobody cared about pips and a suspicious envelope.

Hence Openshaw's panic upon receiving the dreaded warning himself. He took the first train to London to talk to the police there, but nobody believed him either. He was found dead a few days later without any sign of violence on the body, but this time the cause of death was suspicious enough to alert the police – since he had sounded so afraid to die only a few days before, they couldn't conclude suicide. _If he'd come to me, that man would still be alive_, Sherlock thought grimly if a little smugly.

Now, the question was: why was there no sign of violence whatsoever on the bodies when they obviously had been killed? Because the killer must be someone they knew. All three of them. And in the file Lestrade had shown him, only one person appeared to have been close enough to the three victims, although he was only mentioned once, and no one had paid any attention to him.

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

John had been roaming the streets of London for two hours already, asking every homeless person if they knew Sherlock and had seen him, texting Lestrade in case he'd gone to the Met for some reason – but John didn't think so. He'd checked all the places they had gone to together, anything he could think of from the Chinese restaurant to the National Gallery. After an hour of fruitless searching, he was so worried he actually called Mycroft, but the idiot didn't answer his phone – he just replied with a text saying he was busy but would love to see John later in the evening. He'd actually sent one of those black cars after him, John had noticed, and presently a beautiful woman (the _third_ in the span of an hour) was waiting for him at a street corner beside the car.

"John?"

"Yes, it's me, but tell Mycroft he can just take my calls if he wants to talk to me! Oh and inform him his brother is missing, by the way."

He dashed off before she could answer anything. John was very angry with Holmes the elder for treating the matter so lightly. He hadn't even wanted to call him at first because he felt stupid for letting Sherlock out of his sight, and guilty that he had left without a word. He shouldn't have reacted to him like he usually did – he was a doctor, for God's sake, and he knew the dos and don't with _rape_ victims! Yet he'd snapped at Sherlock for being his usual jerky self. It was irresponsible as a doctor, unforgivable as a friend. How could he have been _so_ _stupid?_

Well... because Sherlock had seemed fine. Precisely because he'd just been moping about, whining for a case to come and then had rejected Lestrade who was bringing him one. It was such a familiar situation that John had almost _forgotten_ what Sherlock had been through just the previous day, how fragile his mind must have been. He'd snapped and left him alone in the flat.

The past two days had been so confusing John still didn't know what to make of it. He didn't know where they stood, didn't know what Sherlock was to him (_everything_, a voice whispered in his mind), what he was to Sherlock... Obviously, not much, if he'd give up everything after one little argument which wasn't even serious.

_Don't be ridiculous, John. The matter of the argument isn't the problem – you leaving him was the problem._

But why would Sherlock have been hurt to the extent of vanishing without even leaving a note? _He never leaves notes, stupid. _ OK, so John had told him he was always rude. But was that all? Had it been the fact that he'd run after Lestrade and left him there? On second thought, he should have just told Sherlock to go and apologize, or brought him along with him. Why had he gone out so abruptly? He just hadn't thought.

_You never think, John. You see, but you don't observe. _

John bit his lip. Once again, Sherlock had been right.

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

"I'll have bourbon, please."

"Right away."

Sherlock observed the bartender of the Lone Star closely as he prepared his drink.

"Actually, can I have an orange juice?"

The man turned and stared, obviously finding the request very bizarre.

"I'm sorry sir, we don't serve _juices_ here," he answered mockingly, a tinge of scorn in his voice. Sherlock smiled sweetly.

"Really? Then you use oranges in cocktails I guess?"

"We don't have oranges."

"Oh. That's too bad. Well, a bourbon, then."

The bartender eyed him somewhat suspiciously but Sherlock kept a blank face, and looked completely oblivious.

"Hey there, Captain Calhoun! Beer, please!"

"Hello, Charlie."

Sherlock turned to the man who was obviously a regular customer and sent him a friendly smile.

"Hi, there. Traveller? Never seen you in the Lone Star."

"Oh, yeah, I was on my way to London but my next train is in four hours so I have time. I messed up the reservations when I bought the tickets."

"Ah."

"Here we go!" Calhoun said as he brought their drinks. "Haven't seen you in a while, Charlie."

"Well, I came by on Wednesday, but you were closed."

"Oh yeah, I went to my sister's because she was ill."

"In the States?" Sherlock inquired.

Calhoun stared.

"Why do you say that?"

"Just because of the American accent, that's all."

"I came here a while ago, if you want to know."

"I see. Sorry for intruding." _Liar. You don't have a sister. _

"So you came back only today?" Charlie asked.

"Nah, yesterday. She was fine, just complaining as always."

"And where does your sister live?" Sherlock broke in again. Charlie looked puzzled at his constant interfering.

"In London. This an interrogation or something?" Calhoun laughed it off.

Sherlock smiled, throwing coins onto the counter.

"Not yet. Thanks for the bourbon!"

He left the bar and both men exchanged glances.

"What a wacko," Charlie said, "He's not even touched his drink!"

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

Now night had clearly fallen and John was becoming frantic. That bloody car following him was getting on his nerves as well – he'd snapped at one of the women and told her he didn't give a damn about what Mycroft had to say if he didn't help him find his brother first. He'd never follow until he'd found Sherlock.

His phone rang and he started. _Mycroft_.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" John almost shouted. "He's gone, all right? Have you seen him anywhere on your bloody cameras?"

"I'm sure Sherlock is fine, Dr. Watson. Won't you just get into the car?

"What the... I can't believe you."

He hung up furiously, cursing the man. Did he even care about his brother? He had so much power and yet...

John never finished his thought: two men jumped on him from behind and pressed a tissue to his face, immobilizing him. The word 'chloroform' crossed his mind fleetingly before everything went black.

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

Upon his arrival at Victoria station Sherlock jumped into a cab and shouted '221B Baker street!'

He wanted to tell John he'd solved the case, not realizing how akin to that of a child (or a puppy) his behaviour was. He just needed to prove that perhaps he wasn't worthless and hear John call him brilliant or fantastic or amazing and so on. Right now, he was so excited he could no longer tell whether it was from pride, relief, anticipation or fear – or maybe all of the aforementioned.

Desire too, perhaps. He had so many ideas for tonight's experiment, but he was ready to give all of them up to do whatever John would want – because he felt he had to be forgiven. And there was nothing he wouldn't do to dispel the disappointment in his friend's eyes and replace it with whatever John was willing to give him – admiration, fondness, understanding, connivence...

When he arrived in front of 221B he raced up the stairs and burst into the living-room without any consideration for poor Mrs. Hudson who must have been sleeping and called:

"John!"

But he only called once. The room was dark and quiet; there hadn't been anyone here for hours, he could tell. A shiver ran down his spine as he took the stairs two at a time to John's room, his hand shaking slightly as he pushed the door open... No one was there and he was met by nothing but the void.

The flat was empty. John hadn't come back.

* * *

**_xXx_**

* * *

**.**

**.  
**

**.  
**

**_tbc_  
**


	6. Searching 2

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* * *

_**Chapter 6: Searching (2)**_

* * *

.

.

When John regained consciousness, he was only half surprised to see he'd been brought forcefully to the Diogenes Club – _drugged_, he thought in a daze, rage bubbling in his chest already. His hand automatically searched for his gun, but of course they'd taken it from him. His phone, too.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" he asked Mycroft, who'd just stepped into the room.

John was seething, but Mycroft replied very coldly.

"You kept declining my invitations."

"I was looking for your bloody brother, Mycroft! And you _drugged_ me! Do you even know where he is?"

"He's quite fine, I assure you. Well, except for the fact that by now he must have realized that you have disappeared."

John sighed in relief, but his temper didn't improve.

"Why did you kidnap me then? If you wanted to know what happened, you could have just phoned me!"

"I know very well what happened, Dr. Watson."

John paled.

"You didn't..."

"_Obviously_ I had cameras in the flat."

John clenched his fists.

"Had fun watching?"

"Not really."

Silence.

"So why did you kidnap me?"

"I _invited_ you, John. You just kept declining the invitation."

"What do you want?" John almost snarled.

"To prove a point."

Mycroft's tone was quite dispassionate, and he appeared to be completely indifferent to John's fury. Of course, it only unnerved the doctor even more.

"Which is?" John inquired curtly.

"That what you did couldn't possibly have helped Sherlock in the least."

"Oh yeah? And why is that?"

"He has become very dependant on you. When you leave, he'll be broken again. This is no solution."

John blinked.

"I'm not leaving."

"But you will one day," Mycroft assured.

"I have absolutely no intention to leave."

The elder Holmes snorted.

"_Please_. Don't tell me a well-balanced, grown man like you still believes in everlasting love."

"My past experiences..."

"... were abundant, I know. And this is perfectly normal."

"That is not what I was going to say! Will you let me finish? My past experiences were... yes, well, numerous if you want, but I think I've given enough proof that Sherlock always comes first."

"And when you'll fall in love with someone? Will he still be your priority then?"

"I am in love with someone."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"I do not doubt it, doctor. But no feeling lasts forever. Caring is not an advantage, and Sherlock must overcome this alone, or he will collapse when you are no longer there. Surely even you can understand something this simple?"

"Sherlock needs help at the moment, and it just happens that I am the only one who can provide it!"

"Quite a turn-on, isn't it? _Captain." _

John snapped and in a second was pulling a startled Mycroft by the collar.

"Don't push it, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes' eyes turned to ice.

"Or _what_?"

John trembled with rage but let go of his collar and stepped back. Mycroft readjusted himself disdainfully.

"I am not criticizing you, Dr. Watson. I am just pointing out that in the long term, you'll do more damage than good to Sherlock."

John's hands turned to fists, shaking with fury.

"And how do you know that, Mycroft? Concealed your prescience all this time?"

"If you do... 'love' him, you will understand this is for his own good."

"AND HOW SO? Sherlock isn't dependant on me, he only needs a bit of support now because he's going through a crisis!" John burst out. Then, exasperated: "I'm out of here."

"I don't think so," Mycroft replied icily as two bodyguards came in.

"What the–"

"Twenty-four hours. I'll keep you only twenty-four hours. Just enough to show you how reliant he's become. Maybe then will you understand that you are not helping."

John stared, dumbfounded. "You're joking."

"I'm afraid I am not, John."

"Who do you think you are?"

"His only brother."

"And I'm his only friend!" John exploded.

"Not just a 'friend' anymore, are you? Or would any friend deal with a rape victim's trauma by getting off with them?"

All colours left John's face and he just gaped, appalled.

"Do not get me wrong, John. I am not saying you threw yourself at Sherlock when he was most vulnerable, but you have to admit that it looks like–"

John's punch interrupted him, and suddenly the two gorillas were on an enraged John.

"How _dare_ you?"

Mycroft regained his balance and touched his face gingerly.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. _Now_ you strike me as a very responsible person."

He stepped out of the room and John tried to throw himself at him, but the two guards stopped him.

"Mycroft! Stop this! You're being so _stupid_!"

"I advise you don't try to knock the door down, you'd only hurt your shoulder. Also I'm afraid this room is sound proof. Don't waste your voice."

John stared in shock as Mycroft just left him there. This couldn't be happening.

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

Meanwhile, Sherlock was panicking in the empty flat.

Either John had been kidnapped by Moriarty _again_, or he'd left for good. He wouldn't go to Harry, and he didn't currently have a girlfriend, so Sherlock had no idea where he could have gone – and that was all the more frightening.

He turned the living-room upside down in order to find his phone (what a stupid idea to _confiscate_ it – or had John been _planning_ this? No, Sherlock wouldn't believe it.) His hands were trembling as he dialled John's number.

"_Hello, this is John Watson. I can't answer at the moment but..."_

Sherlock cursed and hung up nervously. Stupid voicemail. He dialled another number.

"Hello?" said Lestrade's voice.

"Is John with you?"

"What? Is this Sherlock?"

"Is he with you? Have you seen him?"

"You always text, has something happened to–"

Sherlock hung up and sighed in exasperation. And fear. The next person he called was Mike Stamford, then Bill Murray, and he'd never been so glad that he'd stolen John's phone to take note of his contacts. His attempt was fruitless, though – no one seemed to have seen him.

Now the sense of dread clearly overrode his irritation and frenzy. He felt very cold suddenly. Swallowing with difficulty, he opened his laptop and went on his site to see if any suspicious message had been left – but there was none. Taking a deep breath, he wrote:

_**Do you have him? **_

As he posted it, he tried not to think too much about whether he would prefer getting an affirmative answer or not.

Sherlock couldn't just wait here until his nemesis answered or John appeared at the door, so he went out to all the places he could think of, bars and pubs and even parks, asking every Baker Street Irregular around to know if they'd seen him. Some had in fact, and told him he'd been walking briskly as if he were very busy or very intent on getting wherever he was going. Sherlock paled and felt the ice grow in his chest.

In the end, he spent the entire night out roaming the streets of London, checking his website on his phone, almost hoping Moriarty would finally answer, tell him where they were, what he wanted from him so he could get John _back, _no matter the cost. He even texted _Mycroft_, and as he wasn't answering, actually _called him_ and left a message because his older brother didn't deign take up his call.

Exhausted, he went back to the flat only at dawn, as his phone didn't have any battery left. His fingers felt numb from dialling the same numbers over and over again all night – John's of course, and Mycroft's too. He'd received a text from Mycroft telling him he was unfortunately busy at the moment but that he got his message and hadn't seen anything suspicious about John on the surveillance cameras. He'd been recorded for the last time near Trafalgar Square, but then they lost his trail. He suggested he may have just been staying over at a friend's, because he needed some air, perhaps?

Sherlock had almost crushed his phone as he'd read the message.

Back at the flat, he checked his site on the laptop again – and shivered when he saw he had got an answer:

_**Ooh, still alive, pretty boy? No Johnny here, I'm afraid – Daddy's a busy man, you know. Trouble in paradise? :D**_

Sherlock let his hand fall slowly back to his side. This meant John was gone. Just gone. It suddenly hit him that he hadn't seen his flatmate's laptop lying around. Filled with dread, he started looking for it, and then for anything else, anything at all that belonged to John.

Except for a few forgotten items, it seemed like he'd packed up everything and left.

Sherlock fell into a chair. How could he have missed this? Wasn't it noticeable enough? He should have seen it sooner. _But you didn't want to see it_, a voice whispered, unpleasantly reminiscent of that of one mad consulting criminal...

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

John Watson knew when to give up. Most of the time, anyway.

Sometimes, he just didn't care whether his behaviour was rational or not – like now, as he was still trying to force the door with his good shoulder, which wasn't so good anymore – he'd been locked up for more than thirteen hours. He'd shouted quite a bit, too, but there were no windows and he knew how to recognize sound proof walls when he saw them. This was serious. He just had to get to Sherlock's side. He knew his friend would believe he'd been kidnapped, and God knew what would happen if he went back to Moriarty believing that he was holding him as a hostage, when the culprit was, in fact, _his own brother_.

John swore he'd kill Mycroft for this.

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

"Elias Openshaw and James Calhoun were segregationists."

Lestrade looked up from his papers and met eyes with none other than Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't help but smile, seeing this as the detective's way of apologising for his earlier behaviour. _Still took him a whole night to come_, he thought, half-annoyed, half-amused. Then he wondered if John had anything to do with it, and tried very hard not to imagine what he could have done to Sherlock to make him change his mind. He cleared his throat.

"How can you possibly know that?"

"Because it's in the report. They left the US after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Act in 1965 because they lived in Texas and couldn't stand 'negroes'. Except that Elias thought James had gone too far with whatever he did to Adanna Ndiaye."

"Wait, who's that?" Lestrade frowned.

"The stepmother! For goodness' sake Lestrade, did you even read that report?"

"Go on", the D.I. grumbled.

"I don't know whether he planned to make her disappear or if something went wrong and then he just had to – what's certain though is that Elias wasn't very happy and stopped working with him altogether. He probably threatened him with going to the police, but didn't because in the end, he shared the same beliefs, and also because I am quite sure they weren't exactly angels back there in the States. Calhoun surely had some things to hold against Openshaw, if he were to talk."

"Then what's with the pips?"

"I already told you that, I believe."

"What?"

"The Ku Klux Klan. Remember Moriarty's..."

He trailed off, shaken by the name he hadn't uttered since...

"Sherlock?"

He pulled himself together._ I am_ not_ going to fear a name_, he thought fiercely.

"… Moriarty's little game with the bombs. I told you back then five pips were a code used by the Ku Klux Klan as a warning. Obviously both Calhoun and Openshaw would be familiar with it – I'd even look into their activities back in Texas if I were you, but you've certainly got better things to do. No more harm can be done anyway, all the Openshaws are dead."

"Exactly! Why did they die?"

Sherlock stared.

"Oh God, how can you not die of boredom?"

"_Sherlock_, to the point!"

"Calhoun felt that Elias Openshaw was going to spill it all and had in his possessions papers that compromised them both. He was ready to use them, or at least, so he thought. So Calhoun panicked and sent the orange pips. Elias ran amok, burnt the papers and ran out..."

"For Christ's sake if you're making that up..."

"You said to the point!"

"Fine."

"… and ran out to his own demise. There were no signs of struggle on the body because there was no struggle. James Calhoun was an old uni pal, and even if he did send him a death message, it was more of a symbolic code between them. Elias Calhoun couldn't possibly suspect his best friend of actually _killing_ him."

He shivered and paused in his explanation. Lestrade arched an eyebrow.

"Well, it cost him his life. Just like the others. Joseph Openshaw didn't like James Calhoun, but would never suspect him of murder – not even his wife's, although he must have been aware of his hatred for black people. Calhoun must have met him on Portsdown Hill and pushed him over the chalk-pit. As for John... "

He shivered again and resisted the urge to bang his head on the wall. _Idiot! _

"...as for John _Openshaw, _I presume he must have been quicker in throwing him in the Thames. Probably knocked him out first on the pavement so it would look like he'd just tripped, knocked himself out and then fallen into the river."

"Why should he have been quicker?"

"Oh _please, _Lestrade, just think for once! John knew someone was after him, he came all the way to London to ask for _your_ help because he was scared to return to Horsham, hence his staying in London for a few days. It would've seemed suspicious even to him that James Calhoun was in London on a week-day. It would've taken merely a few seconds for it to dawn on him I'd say, even if he wouldn't have been sure. Calhoun had to be quicker this time."

"I need proof, though. I can't just go and arrest him for three murders!"

"Here. I recorded his fake alibi for John's murder when I was in the pub. You figure out how to make him spill the rest. I've done quite enough already."

He turned to leave.

"Wait! Sherlock, are you all right? Where is John?"

Sherlock paused in his tracks.

"Gone."

"What do you mean, gone?"

"I mean gone, gone!"

"But that's preposterous!"

"How so? He is allowed to have a life, you know."

"Something must have happened to him!"

"Nothing happened to him."

"Then where is he?"

"I don't know. And I don't care."

"Sherlock!"

He stormed out of the Met without looking back. What was there to look back to anyway? Everything he wanted was supposed to be where he was going now, _home_... But the word no longer held any meaning. Sherlock wasn't sure it hurt, really. All he could feel was the cold spreading from his chest and the gnawing emptiness eating away the last shreds of warmth.

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

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.

_**tbc **_


	7. Catching 1

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* * *

**Chapter 7: Catching (1)**

* * *

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Lestrade did not just do what Mycroft Holmes told him to. However, he'd never gone up against him. _Well, there's a first time for everything_, he told himself as he crossed the threshold of the Diogenes Club. He knew the way to Mycroft's office by now, and knocked firmly twice on the door before going in uninvited. Mycroft was on the phone and frowned up at him.

"I will call you back later tonight."

He hung up quite suddenly and stood up to meet the D.I.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Where is John?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You'll probably have to beg Sherlock's, not mine. _Where_ is he?"

Mycroft sighed dramatically and gestured Lestrade to a seat. The D.I. did not take it.

"He is perfectly fine, I can assure you. He should be back safe and sound in about six or seven hours."

"What in the world is wrong with you? You can't just go around kidnapping people!"

The British government frowned majestically and his lips curved into a contemptuous smile.

"I would advise you not to meddle in business you do not comprehend. It could possibly lead to disastrous results – both for you and the people concerned."

"I want to see him. Now."

"I'm afraid that's not going to be possible."

"Oh yes, it is. I will come back with police officers if you do not show me to him _right now_."

Mycroft shrugged.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Have you seen Sherlock? Have you _seen _him?"

"No. But tell me, I'm interested."

Lestrade froze, his face falling in disbelief.

"Is it what this is all about? Seeing how Sherlock reacts to John being _kidnapped? _Are you insane?"

"He doesn't think John's been kidnapped."

"No, he thinks he's left him, which is even worse! I can't fathom how he could possibly believe such an outrageous..."

Again, he stopped as something dawned on him.

"You took his belongings."

Mycroft smirked.

"You're getting better at this, inspector. Why don't you go and put your skills to use for something more important to the country than Dr. John Watson?"

"He's a British citizen, for God's sake! He's a _person_! You can't kidnap people as you please."

"Yes, well, you've made that point quite clear already, and I've told you I do not _kidnap_ people. Now, if you could please be on your way, I am a busy man..."

Lestrade glared in exasperation.

"Fine. I'll just go around shouting his name until he hears me."

"That would be rather pointless, I assure you. You would only be sent away more forcefully than if you just left now."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I care for my little brother."

"Oh, so you take away the only man who can bear living with him, who always stood by his side faithfully, who's probably saved his life countless times and wouldn't hesitate for one second to give up his own for him, all because you _care_ for your brother?"

"Exactly."

"This is just preposterous!"

Mycroft looked at him icily.

"I do not expect you to understand. Now please leave, or I will have no choice but to call security."

Lestrade shook his head, his fists clenching and unclenching as he seemed to be debating something internally. That infuriating man could crush his career on a whim, and he knew it. Finally, he snapped. "Sod it! You're the one who leaves me no choice."

He took a deep breath and brought out his badge.

"Mycroft Holmes, I am arresting you on suspicion of the abduction and false imprisonment of Dr. John Hamish Watson."

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

John had given up demolishing the door about an hour ago and was now drowning in a sea of doubt and confusion.

What Mycroft had said was technically true. He did have sex with Sherlock the very day he'd been raped – even if there had been no penetration, neither in the morning with Moriarty, nor with him at night. He firmly believed what he'd done wasn't just sex, and if it had ended up being also that, it was because Sherlock had been more than willing. Or at least John still believed so before he was kidnapped and told a few home truths by Big Brother.

Now he wasn't so sure. Sherlock had never shown any interest in sex except with Irene Adler. John knew he cared about him, as he was his closest friend – the only one, according to him – but he never said or did anything that might suggest any further attraction. He cared for him enough to play Moriarty's little mind games and dance in the palm of his hand so John wouldn't be shot or tortured, but such devotion was perfectly conceivable in friendship. John should know. He'd been to war, and knew what true comradeship was. He had never shared such a bond as he had with Sherlock with anyone else, but it wasn't absurd to think a man would give his own life to save that of his best friend. This didn't necessarily imply romantic involvement.

Had he truly taken advantage of Sherlock when he was at his weakest? Was he glad to be the only one who could fix him, because he'd been the one Moriarty had used to break Sherlock down to pieces? John shivered. Maybe he was. Maybe he _had_ taken advantage of him, cowardly persuading himself it was for Sherlock's own good when in fact it was all just for himself.

Mycroft was right too when he'd said that John must have enjoyed feeling needed and in charge. He'd enjoyed it. Even worse, he _had_ been turned on in the basement as Sherlock was being psychologically tortured and brought to his knees, and the dance that had cost him so much had been beautiful and ridiculously arousing in John's eyes.

Surely he couldn't have been completely wrong about his way of treating the trauma... It felt so right when he'd done it, all of it... Okay, so lap dancing hadn't felt especially right at first, it'd been awkward and humiliating, but the moment Sherlock had dropped the gun and touched him, John had known he would do a thousand lap dances if it could give back to Sherlock his will to live. In fact, he would probably do anything for such an end.

Yet the thought did not assuage his guilt. He'd been so sure and determined this was the right thing to do when he was with Sherlock, but now that he'd been taken away from him, he started doubting himself. What if he was as despicable as Mycroft had described him?

He was suddenly roused from his self-deprecatory thoughts when the door was swung open and Lestrade burst into the room. John jumped to his feet.

"Greg? What are you doing here?"

"Destroying my career, I think."

"_What?"_

"Let's get out of here."

John followed him and resisted the urge to hug the D.I. As they walked briskly down the corridor, he asked:

"How did you know where to find me?"

Lestrade shrugged.

"A long acquaintance with the Holmes brothers."

"What in the world did you tell Mycroft for him to let me go seven hours early?"

"I think I just convinced him that Sherlock needed you more than he thought."

John felt his heart sink.

"Did something happen to him?"

Lestrade shook his head as they rushed into the police car waiting in front of the club.

"No, but I think it's high time he sees you again."

"What do you mean?"

Lestrade handed him his mobile phone, then his handgun.

"Here. Let's say I never saw the gun. Mycroft said he'd have the suitcase sent back right away."

"The suitcase?"

Lestrade sent him an anxious glance as he started the car.

"Yes. Your suitcase. With most of your belongings in it. Mycroft had it all packed yesterday."

"He _what?"_

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

Sherlock had felt very tired for once when he got back from the Met, but found there was nowhere he could sleep anymore. _In his own flat_. The couch he was so fond of and even his own bed were so full of memories he couldn't even sit on them without feeling John's hands on him, his heartbeats, his quiet chuckles, his scent... Of course, John's room was out of the question.

So he ended up falling asleep in a kitchen chair, his head and crossed arms resting on the wooden table. That's how John found him when he came running up the stairs and burst into their living-room.

"Sherlock!"

He turned and saw the sleeping figure jolt as he called his name. Their eyes met and Sherlock froze on the spot. His lost and innocent expression upon waking up and seeing John was immediately replaced with a mask of cold indifference. He straightened up and started to clear the table as if he'd been in the middle of a very complex experiment, and not sleeping off the pain of being walked out on.

"John. Nice to see you again. I was wondering when you'd come to take the things you'd forgotten. I took the liberty of gathering them and putting them on your bed upstairs. Hope you don't mind."

"Sherlock."

"Oh and remember to hand back your key to Mrs. Hudson upon leaving."

"Sherlock, I'm not leaving. Please, just listen to me."

There were many answers to that which crossed the detective's mind. _Haven't I listened enough already? _or _What's the point? _or _You're not leaving? _And so on. Too many words and emotions rushed to his brain and tripped it. He remained quiet and stared with eyes that were shut off from the world.

"I was abducted by your crazy brother last night as I was searching for you throughout London. He held me back all this time to prove a point. Fortunately Lestrade managed to convince him he was being a twat and I could come back earlier. Just..."

John's throat tightened as he saw the emptiness lingering on his friend's face. The damage was done. He wouldn't undo it with just a few words. Sherlock had believed all day long that John had left him.

He fell to his knees and embraced Sherlock's legs, burying his face in his lap, adopting a pose that was submissive, devoted and loving.

"You've got to believe me, Sherlock."

"You didn't leave."

"I didn't leave."

"Mycroft kidnapped you."

"He kidnapped me."

"I'm going to kill him."

"We're going to kill him."

He looked up at Sherlock and met his eyes filled with confusion, hope and fear. John pushed himself back up and straddled him, leaning in until their foreheads were touching, his arms around his back.

"Sherlock... how could you think I had walked out on you without saying anything? Hell, how could you think I had walked out on you?"

"It was only logical."

"No, it wasn't."

"You were gone. Your belongings were gone. You didn't answer your phone. Lestrade said he hadn't seen you, Moriarty said he didn't have you, Mycroft said–"

"Wait, you talked to _Moriarty_?"

Sherlock shook his head helplessly.

"Message. Website. Said he didn't have you."

"And you just believed what they all said?"

A flash of anger traversed Sherlock's gaze.

"Moriarty wouldn't have abducted you and then told me he hadn't, because the whole point would be for me to _know_. Lestrade wouldn't lie about this, and if he did I could tell. Mycroft... Mycroft."

His face darkened considerably, and never had John seen such hatred on his features.

"Mycroft could lie to me. I just didn't consider it because there was no motive. What did he tell you?"

John felt a shiver run down his spine, and he backed off a bit, feeling suddenly very out of place. Sherlock frowned imperceptibly.

"He wanted to keep me away from you for twenty-four hours to see how you'd react," John finally said, deciding it would be better for both of them not to hide the truth.

"Why?"

John shook his head.

"To prove a point."

This time, worry and annoyance were clear on Sherlock's face.

John swallowed and looked away.

"Look, Sherlock... I'm sorry if you felt like I was forcing myself on you. I didn't realize, I..."

"John. What are you saying?"

John bit his lip and tried to slip off Sherlock's lap to look him straight in the eye, but was surprised to feel a pair of long arms encircle him, refusing to let go.

"What did he tell you?"

"The truth," John let out in one breath. "I've taken advantage of you when you were at your most vulnerable. It made me happy to be the one who could fix you because I had been the one used to break you. I enjoyed being in charge. Even in the basement, I–"

"Stop. Stop right there. You said you wouldn't let Moriarty's stupid little mindgames get to you, that yes, you desired me in the basement, but did even before that."

"Yes, and all of that is true, but–"

"We both know you like being in charge and don't get to do it often when you're with me because... well, I like controlling too."

"Sherlock, that's not the same."

Sherlock pressed him closer gingerly, hardly believing he was allowed to feel this man again, to smell his scent, to hear his voice...

"Sherlock?"

"I'm worthless. While I was so foolishly _happy _to believe I had retained my mental capacities I was being tricked by my own brother and _didn't even see it_."

"Sherlock, you were tricked, as you said–"

"I shouldn't have been tricked!"

"Well, You shouldn't have believed that I had left. You know me better than that. Why did you think that?"

Of course, John knew. It was quite symptomatic. The fear of being abandoned, of being left alone behind as the other moves on... That fear was so insidious that it made you see it happen every time even the tiniest detail suggested it. Sherlock was so scared and so _convinced_ that John would leave him sooner or later – and probably sooner than later – that he'd fallen for his brother's trick. John knew, and he knew Sherlock knew, and that this was exactly what Mycroft had been trying to prove. John bit his lip.

Sherlock was observing him closely.

"You're feeling guilt."

"Yes, brilliant deduction," John retorted, rather snappy.

"Why would you be feeling guilt?"

His voice was tinged with panic, as if he thought John had done something he was unaware of and which would justify the guilt. John just shook his head, wordless. Sherlock furrowed his brow and leant in until his lips were brushing against John's ear.

"Why..."

He bit the lobe and John gasped.

"Would..."

Another bite right under the ear sent shivers throughout John's body.

"You..."

The third bite, on his throat, sent a jolt straight to his groin.

"Be..."

The fourth, at the juncture between the neck and the collarbone, was enhanced with nibbling and sucking, and John whimpered as he thought of the lovebite it'd leave.

"Feeling..."

Bite number five fell on the right side of his throat near the jugular vein and the thrill and feeling of vulnerability it gave sent sparks down his spine – he couldn't hold back a moan as the heat in his groin became more distracting by the second.

_"Guilt?"_

John felt a sudden surge of panic upon seeing Sherlock's face loom over his.

His cry was lost under bite number six, which swooped down on his parted lips.

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_xXx_

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_**tbc  
**_


	8. Catching 2

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**Chapter 8: Catching (2)  
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"Why would you be feeling guilt?"

His voice was tinged with panic, as if he thought John had done something he was unaware of and which would justify the guilt. John just shook his head, wordless. Sherlock furrowed his brow and leant in until his lips were brushing against John's ear.

"Why..."

He bit the lobe and John gasped.

"Would..."

Another bite right under the ear sent shivers throughout his body.

"You..."

The third bite, on his throat, sent a jolt straight to his groin.

"Be..."

The fourth, at the juncture between the neck and the collarbone, was enhanced with nibbling and sucking, and John whimpered as he thought of the love-bite it'd leave.

"Feeling..."

Bite number five fell on the right side of his throat near the jugular vein and the thrill and feeling of vulnerability sent sparks down his spine – John couldn't hold back a moan as the heat in his crotch became more distracting by the second.

_"Guilt?"_

John felt a sudden surge of panic upon seeing Sherlock's face loom over his.

His cry was lost under bite number six, which swooped down on his parted lips.

It shouldn't have been so arousing; feeling positively _swallowed_ shouldn't _be_ arousing. Yet it was. Sherlock's kiss was quite literally penetrating. He'd taken John off guard and after the original bite, his tongue hadn't sneaked in between his lips, but thrust in forcefully, invading him before he could utter a single word of protest.

John was feeling himself melt – except in that very obvious part which was getting harder and harder – and he tried to get away from the electrifying embrace. This really wasn't the time. They had to talk.

"Sherl... hmpff!"

Another cry of surprise was stifled in his throat with a kiss as he was suddenly pushed backwards, pinned onto the kitchen's table, his legs spread on either side of Sherlock's waist, for he'd been straddling him. Sherlock bent slightly, towering him, resting his arms on either side of John's head and making it all the more difficult to escape. He finally broke the kiss.

"Sherlock, what the hell do you think you're–"

"You haven't answered my question."

"And I'm not answering it in this position!" John shouted, his cheeks burning and his heart hammering.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. What was wrong with that position? It was just so John wouldn't walk away and stop touching him. He was the one who'd come and straddled him, so surely a bit of physical contact wouldn't hurt him...

"_Oh_."

"What? Oh Jesus I really don't like that wolfish grin of yours..."

"Yes you do," Sherlock almost purred as he bent over him intimidatingly.

John squirmed and tried to push him back, but 1) He didn't want Sherlock to feel as if he were rejecting him 2) His erection was throbbing already and he wondered since when he'd become such a beast (it hadn't even been twenty-four hours, for God's sake! Oh, but they hadn't touched since the previous morning, so... No, God!) 3) He wasn't so sure he wanted to push him back.

_No. Bad timing. _

"Sherlock, we have to talk."

"Aren't we talking?"

"I meant _seriously._"

"But I am serious."

John's eyes widened when he saw that Sherlock wasn't kidding. He _was_ serious. Seriously tempting, too.

"No, listen... ah!"

He bit his lip to suppress a moan as Sherlock's leg not-so-innocently brushed against his erection. Now John was _seriously_ considering fighting back. _Fighting back?_ The mental image made him groan. _God, this is crazy..._

"Agonophilia."

Once again, he was brought back to reality by Sherlock's peculiar sense of conversation during sex.

"What?"

"One of your kinks, John."

"How could you possibly know my kinks?"

Sherlock scoffed.

"I deduce them."

John rolled his eyes.

"Right, well that's great, now if you could just let me go so we can..."

"Agonos, Greek for 'fighting' or 'struggle'; philein, to like."

The meaning of Sherlock's pedantic rambling started to dawn on John, who wriggled all the more frantically, trying to worm his way out of his partner's grasp without actually hurting him – whether his feelings or his body.

"Come on Sherlock, let.. hmmpf!"

He was pressed yet again onto the wooden table none too gently as the devious pair of lips fastened back on his. This wasn't good. The more threatened he felt, the more excited he became, and this really, _really_ wasn't a good time.

"Please Sher–"

"The question is," the detective cut in, sliding a knee between John's legs, eliciting a moan from him, "which way do you like it?" He loomed over him with a smirk, pressing further. John gasped.

"Certainly not like _this_!"

Sheer panic flashed across Sherlock's eyes, and his knee moved back, the pressure slackening.

"The other way round, then?"

John sighed in exasperation.

"Look, this just isn't the right time!"

"It's the perfect time."

"No it isn–"

He was silenced with another kiss, but so gentle and hesitant he couldn't believe Sherlock could switch moods so easily. This kiss was almost a peck, but it lingered, brushing his lips, pressing lightly, leaving again and coming back, as if Sherlock was tasting. _Testing_, too, John thought, but the kiss was so soft, and it felt so much like a tamed animal trying to test the ground and see whether it was safe or not to play with its master that he just gave up and allowed himself to become limp in the embrace.

"Will you let me show you something?" Sherlock whispered against his lips.

John gulped and fidgeted a bit as he felt the detective's heart hammering against his. Both were frantic and beating hectically, as if singing in a round. He caught Sherlock's gaze and knew he was doomed. Taking a deep breath, he nodded determinedly. Ever the soldier. Sherlock's face lit up and was graced with a boyish grin as he exclaimed:

"All right! You'll have to struggle, then."

"Wait, wha... ah!"

John was confounded to find himself picked up like a child and manhandled down the corridor before being dropped onto the bed like a very heavy piece of luggage.

"What the hell?" he shouted as Sherlock rummaged through one of his drawers. Finally he turned, brandishing two leather belts as if they were prizes he'd won by the sweat of his brow. John froze.

"Sherlock–"

A moment later the detective was on him, grabbing his wrists and bringing them above his head. John counter-attacked by sliding his knee up to Sherlock's chest and pushing violently, no longer holding back.

"God, you're so childish, can't we just talk?"

"Can't we do both?"

"This isn't a game, Sherlock!"

He jumped and dodged his partner's arm that was trying to catch him, and soon they were grappling with each other heatedly. _Not good_, John thought. Sherlock was taller than him and he'd been the one pinning him to the bed, so the ex-soldier was clearly at a disadvantage. He had to find a way to get up. An opportunity arose when he accidentally brushed against Sherlock's groin, noticing for the first time that he wasn't the only one excited by the fight. Smirking, he pressed in further, teasing, until Sherlock moaned and slackened his grip just enough for John to roll to the side and jump to his feet.

He didn't have much time to gloat, though, as he found that Sherlock actually _knew_ how to fight.

"You never told me you learned hand-to-hand combat!" he said, panting, as he lunged and kicked in a vain attempt to trip his friend to the ground. Sherlock snorted.

"It's called baritsu, John. And how do you think I survived before you came along?"

John giggled and dodged again.

"I don't know, by talking to them? That'd be enough to chase most people away..."

Sherlock pouted and John smirked.

"Come on, show me what you've got."

"Oh, don't tempt me, Captain."

"Isn't it already too late for that?"

Sherlock's eyes widened at the alluring comment and he shivered. He'd started the wrestling because he knew exactly the way Mycroft thought and brainwashed people. He had used John's domineering tendencies to convince the doctor he was a monster. There was no way Sherlock could argue against that, because he didn't even comprehend how John could be considered anything else than a hero – and a _monster?_ That was ludicrous. He knew better. This was what they liked, this was what they craved. The danger. The thrill of the confrontation. This, _this_... was 'dancing'.

"So, tell me, _sir_... Shall I have you?"

He tripped him and John fell back onto the bed with a gasp, but rolled just in time to avoid getting pinned against the mattress again. He yelped as Sherlock threw himself on him, ground their bodies together, and kissed his throat softly. Moaning into the touch, John could feel his partner's lips curve against the sensitive skin of his neck. Sherlock was relishing the vibration he felt against his mouth as his friend groaned resoundingly. Taking the chance, he grabbed his wrists, swiftly tying them up with one of the belts.

"Hey! That's _cheating!"_

"I thought this wasn't a _game,_ John?"

"You... ah!"

"Umm... not the other way round, then."

"_Shut up._"

"With pleasure," Sherlock retorted, putting his mouth to better use on John's collarbone. John growled.

"Your jumper's in the way."

"_What_? Seriously, Sherlock, _you_'re in the way!"

Sherlock frowned as John struggled against him, trying to free his hands from the belt. He blushed. He'd begun this struggling game to prove a point, but with the ex-soldier now writhing under him, face flushed and pupils dilated, he was quite distracted and losing track of the original plan.

"You're beautiful," he blurted before he knew what he was saying.

John stopped wriggling and lay still. Soon his expression of surprise was replaced with one of indignation.

"I am _not_!" For God's sake, he wasn't a woman. _Beautiful? Him? _

But he remembered having found Sherlock beautiful as he'd danced in the basement. _Stripped. Been raped. _He shivered and his face fell.

Sherlock noticed and furrowed his brow. _No, John, don't go there. _He sneaked a hand under his jumper and pinched a nipple teasingly, making him gasp. _Come on. Stay with me. _Running his fingers over his chest, he revelled in the warmth he thought he'd never feel again.

"Sherlock–"

John was cut off as his jumper was pulled over his head abruptly. He mumbled a protest, squirming under the invading touch. Sherlock groaned.

"Why did you have to wear a shirt? Oh well."

"Sherlock, don't rip it off!"

"Too late."

"Fuck you!"

"Later, if you want."

John blushed furiously.

"I wasn't–"

"You still can, though."

"Do you have _any_ idea what you're talking abou.. ah!"

John arched his back and thought he'd come then and there as Sherlock passed the second belt around his neck and squeezed.

"Sherlock!"

"John, John..." the detective said reprovingly as he kissed his way down his partner's throat to his firm chest. "I thought you knew what calling my name did to me..."

He pressed his erection against John's thigh, and the doctor moaned in despair, well aware that him struggling with his wrists tied up and a belt around his neck couldn't be very intimidating.

"No, it isn't. It is incredibly stimulating, though."

"Stop reading my thoughts!"

"Stop being so obvious."

He leant in and kissed him with passion. _That_ kiss was neither gentle nor hungry, only ardent. It subjugated John, who'd thought his friend's lips were new and exciting only because he was always experimenting, and never doing things the ordinary way. A passionate kiss should've been ordinary. John had been kissed passionately countless times.

Or so he thought. Nothing compared to the heat and desperation those lips conveyed, to the liquid fire it ignited in him.

_Wait, liquid fire_? His eyes snapped opened as he became aware of the wetness on the face that was pressed to his. He pulled back and broke the kiss, trying to put some distance between them, but Sherlock buried his face in the crook of his neck.

"Sherlock, are you...nngh!"

He was cut off as his partner squeezed the belt tighter around his neck with one hand, the other one sliding between John's legs and fondling him.

"Sh... Sherlock..." _Stop. Please look at me._

As if he'd actually heard him, Sherlock sat up and locked his burning eyes with his. John gulped at the feral expression. The belt was starting to choke him, and tears were pouring down his contorted face.

"Sh.. Sh.."

Sherlock released him suddenly and he drew a sharp breath, wheezing erratically. The panic had exhilarated him and his trembling body was now so sensitive he could feel every inch of his skin crawl, throbbing in anticipation, craving the touch. His head was spinning and he had no strength left to fight back.

"Time to surrender, John..."

"Nngh..."

John felt a wet mouth engulf his ear, then trace its way down his throat and chest, licking, nibbling and sucking. One of Sherlock's hand was holding the belt around his wrists securely, while the other palmed him through his trousers, exploring and titillating.

"Sher... Sherlock..."

A chuckle.

"You won't believe how erotic your hoarse voice sounds, John."

He moaned shamelessly, but it came out more as a hiss or a whimper. _I'm going to burst_, he thought dazedly.

"John? Stand up."

_What_? _He's got to be kidding me._

"John. I said stand up."

"... the hell..."

Sherlock sighed.

"Fine. Come here."

"Ah!"

John's head fell back as he was brought up to his legs forcefully, crying out in pain and pleasure as Sherlock pulled him by the neck and the groin. He was pressed to the detective's chest like a ragged doll, Sherlock's hand still between his legs, groping, his fingers brushing the nape of his neck, his mouth on his, his tongue penetrating him. John came in a matter of seconds, screaming his pleasure.

He hadn't come in his pants since his teenage years, and the stickiness surrounding his pounding member only enhanced his orgasm. Sherlock's lips never left his, swallowing his scream and his shame and his guilt, sucking his soul out and transforming it into something _beautiful._

Exhausted, John fell to his knees, but Sherlock caught him and lowered his limp body onto the mattress, lying down by his side. They lay there in silence, catching their breath, until Sherlock brushed his fingers against the doctor's neck gingerly, and murmured:

"You were feeling guilty, so I thought I'd take the chance to subdue you. I've taken advantage of you when you were at your most vulnerable. It made me happy to be the one who could fix you because I had been the one used to break you. I enjoyed being in charge. Even in the basement, I..."

He swallowed with difficulty, his hand shaking a bit. John's eyes widened and he grabbed the trembling hand.

"Sherlock, that's–"

"Even in the basement I got aroused because you were watching," he spouted in one breath. "I... I _came_ because... because I..."

"Oh Sherlock..."

John pulled him closer and hugged him tightly, caressing his back soothingly, snuggling into the abounding black curls. Had Sherlock done all that just to prove a point? Was he really so much like his brother? _No, of course not_, John chided himself. He was so emotionally unstable that he couldn't even get the words out properly. _Perhaps he does love me, unwittingly... _Right. Wishful thinking.

He kissed the top of the beloved head, stroking and massaging the scalp gently. There was nothing to be said, nothing his lips and eyes and hands couldn't convey more effectively. It wasn't okay, and John doubted it would be before a while. He was here for Sherlock, but Sherlock knew that, and didn't need to hear it. Or did he?

"Sherlock... I'm not leaving you. Not now, not ever. I love you."

Sherlock pressed his forehead against John's shoulder and sighed in relief. A promise of eternity, now. He'd been right to aim for the sex before doing the talking. Orgasms seemed to do tremendous things to John's brain. Sherlock could find John's kinks even before the doctor was aware of them. He needed to make sure through his body that John would stay, hence the research and experiments. If he could get _his body_ addicted to his touch, then maybe, maybe he wouldn't leave so soon. He had to find the perfect balance between teasing, and satisfying.

Yes, he thought as he relished the feel and smell of the skin he'd thought he'd never touch again, perhaps this could work. If John was going to profess his undying love every time he reached his climax or in the afterglow, Sherlock would gladly push him over the edge a million times.

Before John came to his senses, and it'd be time to say goodbye.

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_xXx_

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_**tbc**_


	9. Meddling 1

**A/N: **The case in this chapter and the following is (very loosely) based on Arthur Conan Doyle's _Adventure of the Dancing men_.

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**Chapter 9: Meddling (1)**

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John was still stroking Sherlock's hair gently when the detective realized that now he'd probably want to 'talk' – what was there to talk about anyway? Everything had been said already. John had been kidnapped, he was sorry, he _wasn't leaving_... As for Sherlock, he really didn't feel like boasting about his success in the five orange pips case anymore. His enthusiasm and pride had been overridden by fear, then emptiness. And now he knew he'd been completely tricked.

The petting came to a halt and Sherlock bit his lips. In fact, he had another problem, much more urgent than to go and kill Mycroft. Even though that was his top priority, he couldn't exactly leave the flat with a hard-on. Nor could he properly listen to what John had to say under these circumstances. Jumping to his feet and turning before his partner could catch a glimpse of his erection, he made a run for the bathroom.

"What... Sherlock, where are you going?"

"Bathroom!"

John sighed and sat up straight on the bed. Was he trying to avoid the discussion that badly? Well, to be fair, Sherlock's post-coital attitude was in no way ordinary – how could it be? He always seemed to be thinking of something else right away, and it rather broke the mood. How could he be so quick to recover from... wait.

Had he come with John this time? He hadn't even had the sense to check. What kind of lover was he? _Damn_. Pretty lousy, to the least. Then he froze and blushed as it dawned on him. Sherlock had gone to the _bathroom_. His face cracked into a smile. _That_ could be fun.

In a moment he was on his feet and hovering around the bathroom's door. He didn't knock and burst in on Sherlock who was standing in front of the toilet, his trousers and pants down at his ankles, glaring at the lavatory bowl, holding his erection with both hands and obviously very annoyed that he wasn't ejaculating already with his ministrations. He started in shock, gaping, not believing he'd forgotten to _lock_ the bloody door.

"What... you..." he spluttered.

"Oh, so _this_ is what you meant by 'bathroom'?" John smirked.

A very deep blush crept up the pale cheeks of the detective, who looked down in shame, trying to hide himself. John came in and closed the door behind him, this time effectively locking it. Sherlock looked up in fright like a trapped animal.

"Don't mind me," John commented sweetly, a sparkle in his eyes.

"You're joking."

"No, not at all. Sorry for interrupting. Please do go on."

Sherlock gulped, wondering if his friend was serious. Why would he want to see _that_? He'd already had his pleasure, and surely he couldn't derive any from...

"Sherlock..." John groaned, crossing his arms. He'd seen his partner naked under the shower already, but he hadn't even touched him then – not his most intimate spots, anyway. Sherlock had come merely from John coming himself – which was, in itself, a turn-on. But _this_ was different. The doctor had seen many penises in his life, and _never_ had he been aroused by one. It was just a piece of flesh, one he wasn't interested in in the least. But here he was, fascinated by the absurd sight of Sherlock standing in front of a bowl as if he were going to urinate, and desperately trying to make himself come. The thought itself was ridiculously pleasant, but _witnessing the scene_?

"Come on, Sherlock. Touch yourself."

Sherlock frowned at the commanding tone, and shrugged.

"Fine."

He turned back to the bowl and began pumping his very hard member forcefully. John goggled.

"What the... Sherlock, for goodness' sake, you're not milking a cow here!"

Sherlock glared defensively.

"How would you know? Have you ever milked one?"

The retort was so silly John couldn't help but burst out laughing. This unnerved Sherlock even more, and he pressed his poor shaft all the more vigorously.

"Sherlock, stop this!" John exclaimed between giggles, stepping in closer, putting his hand on the detective's own. Both froze as Sherlock's length throbbed under the newly added contact. Sherlock gulped, and John smirked, pressing himself closer to his lover's back, his arms encircling him and his fingers laced with his, brushing against his hardness.

Sherlock moaned and arched his back.

"John..."

"Your technique is so bad, I'm surprised you haven't hurt yourself already," John murmured, and he knew Sherlock was glowering.

"It's not like this is relevant to what I do! Why would I bother–"

"Wait, are you saying this is your first time masturbating?" John asked, dumbfounded.

The heat on Sherlock's face increased, and he grumbled back a response.

"Excuse me?"

"I never had the need to!" he snapped.

"What do you mean not the–"

"On the very rare occasions I woke up with what you all call 'morning wood', it just went flaccid with a cold shower and I was done with it!"

"You're kidding, right? You mean you never ejaculated before..."

John realized too late where this was going, and bit his lip. Sherlock sensed his unease, and replied straight away, mumbling:

"I had wet dreams."

Now picturing _that_ was almost enough to get John hard again, but he was more concerned about his friend's mental state. He hugged him, resting his head on his back, and this could have just been a very manly friendly embrace, if his trousers hadn't been at his ankles, and John behind him. Not to mention the now pulsing erection.

Very slowly, John moved Sherlock's hands under his so they would grip his erect member gently. Sherlock started trembling and moaned.

"Shh... it's okay. I'll just show you, all right?"

His moan turned into a whine as John moved their hands up and down the shaft, testing, listening attentively for every sound Sherlock made in order to adapt the tightness of the grip and the pace accordingly. He grew more confident as he got the wails.

"John... John!"

"Usually, you should always use lube to avoid irritation. Well, you're already dripping, but..."

Sherlock bit his lip to stifle a moan, his head falling backwards.

"No, no, no, I'm going through all this effort to teach you something, so pay attention! Look down, Sherlock."

Shaking uncontrollably, his skin crawling under the unusual waves of pleasure, he complied with a whimper.

"Good." John smiled. He was enjoying this far too much. "Now, the basics are rubbing or just moving up and down, _gently_. Well, it depends what shakes your boat, I guess, but you can't just squeeze it and hope it'll all come out as if you were pressing a banana."

Sherlock squealed and started squirming.

"Then, you've got several variants... This one, for instance..."

Moving Sherlock's fingers around like a doll's, he made him form a ring with his thumb and forefinger, his own hand mimicking the gesture. He moved up, letting the ring slide down to sit around the base of Sherlock's penis, and repeated the same gesture with the other hand. Sherlock gasped, and John took this as a go-ahead, sliding the rings up to the base of the glans, stroking with one ring at a time.

"John...!"

"Good?"

Sherlock glared but thought it wiser not to open his mouth, for fear it would let out only a moan.

"Guess that's a yes."

Sherlock was in fact terrified. The overwhelming sensations were almost knocking him out, and he couldn't string together two thoughts properly. He was losing control, and it was utterly terrifying. That John could have such an effect on him, that he could have him wriggling and panting and completely _helpless_ with a mere stroke on _just_ the right place frightened him to no end.

"John... I'm com–"

Before he could end his sentence he felt the warm pair of hands suddenly leave his and gasped at the loss of contact, feeling disoriented and discarded.

"You got the moves. Now, make yourself come."

John didn't step back and embraced him loosely, his arms circling his waist, his head resting on his right shoulder.

"Come on, Sherlock."

Sherlock trembled in apprehension and shame, but also with a glimpse of anticipation. He moved the rings formed by his fingers up and down tentatively, crying out as he reached the tip.

"Good, that's good. Let it all out, Sherlock. There's nothing to be ashamed of. _Pleasure_ isn't something to be ashamed of."

"You... you're lying..." he rasped strenuously, his voice hoarse.

John chuckled.

"Well, maybe _common_ people would find it embarrassing, but since when do you care? You never give a damn about society standards. Have you ever felt ashamed when you've been examining a body gleefully, even though a person had just died?"

"N... no..."

"Did you care you were giggling at a crime scene?"

"You were the one who shot him... ah!"

John smirked. He'd never been especially turned on by partners masturbating in front of him, because they were always putting on a show, and it was never authentic – the moans were too loud, the thrusts too dramatic. Sherlock was authentic. When he jolted and writhed and groaned and wailed, he wasn't acting. It was so incredibly refreshing that John wished he could enjoy this every day for the rest of his life.

"I'm going to move now, so I can look at you."

"N... no! Don't... please.. ah! Don't!"

But John had already let go of him and was now standing by his side, fascinated by the view. Sherlock's body was shining with perspiration, his breathing strained, his face so flushed he looked feverish, his every limb vibrating with tension and pleasure. His hands were almost dripping with pre-cum, and his glowing penis was now racked with spasms.

John was positively enthused.

"Don't stop," he commanded.

Sherlock wailed resoundingly but complied. He was so scared and it felt just so _good_ and John's eyes on him were innervating his whole body. _I don't want him to leave... I don't want to lose control... I don't want him to leave... I don't want to lose control... I don't want him to leave... I don't want him to leave! _He screamed as his orgasm hit him, his eyes rolling up into his head, his body thrashing back and forth. The pleasure was so intense he thought his legs would give way under him, and so he kept moving, writhing and swaying to stay upright. He vaguely felt the tears fill his eyes and streak down his face, drowning the anguish and the mortification, flooding the longing and the passion. It was all too much.

John gaped, subjugated by the movements. Sherlock was _dancing_ to the orgasmic release. He was gorgeous.

As his climax came to an end, his vision became blurred and he felt all his remaining strength leave him. The blinding light behind his eyelids was replaced by darkness. He didn't even realize he was collapsing until he felt a pair of strong arms catch him and stop his fall. Trembling, gasping and sobbing, he held onto John with desperation, as if he were an anchor.

John embraced him securely, rocking him like a child, pressing his lips against his brow and his damp curls.

"You're amazing, Sherlock."

_Because I'm pathetic? Oh, thank you, John. _

"Truly incredible."

_Glad I found such an easy – and whorish – way to get the same compliments you gave for my deductions. Now you're going to say I'm beautiful._

"You're beautiful..."

_Here we go. _

"... and I admire you so much."

_I know that. …Wait, what? _

John kissed his forehead reverently.

"And brave too... this must have cost you so much."

At those words Sherlock choked, and tears filled his eyes again. John pressed his lips to his pulsating temple and closed his eyes.

"Your courage is dazzling."

In this instant Sherlock hated his own pathetic self and his weakness so much; and he loved John all the more.

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

John was pacing in the living-room while Sherlock took a shower. He'd basically thrown him out of the bathroom, saying he needed to wash and get prepared to meet Mycroft – to "kill" him, more precisely.

That had reminded John that stupid Big Brother had put cameras all over the flat – or so he said. Maybe he'd just been messing with his mind. But then again, maybe he hadn't, and if there was even just one camera in their home, filming their most intimate moments, John had to find it and get rid of it. Or better even, avoid doing anything in front of it. If Mycroft had managed to bug the flat once, then he'd be able to do it again. He sighed.

He'd have to talk to Mycroft. Convince him to just leave them alone and _stop meddling_. What would Sherlock say if he found out his own brother had witnessed his first sexual experiences? John didn't even want to think about it.

Then there was also the fact that he wasn't so sure of himself anymore. What if he went too far? What if he truly hurt Sherlock? _What if he really was manipulating him for his own pleasure? _He shivered, appalled and disgusted with himself. He loved the man so much, of that he was dead certain. But love was no excuse. Whatever he did or said would have consequences – not only for himself and their relationship, but for Sherlock's mind and body too. And those were in his eyes the most important things in the world.

Speaking of body... When was the last time Sherlock had eaten? According to Lestrade, he'd been in pretty bad shape when he'd come to the Met, although he had acted like his usual insufferable self. He'd actually deduced everything in record time. _As always_. Except it wasn't exactly as always, was it? John smiled. Brilliant. Sherlock was truly brilliant.

He was just finishing to prepare sandwiches when Sherlock burst out of the bathroom, running to the staircase.

"I'm going out, John, I'll be back later!"

"What? Wait! Where are you going? Just... what the _hell_ are you wearing?"

"A disguise, John. _Obviously_."

"You disguised yourself into... a bag of rubbish?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue irritably.

"A vagrant, John. A very drunk vagrant, actually."

"You're _drunk_?"

"God, John, are you familiar with the concept of _disguise_?"

"Right. Wait! I've just fixed something to eat."

"Not hungry!" he shouted, already rushing down the stairs.

"Sherlock!"

John stood in the living-room, astonished. What had just happened? _Well, he does that sometimes, doesn't he?_ Yes, but not since... Moriarty. Sherlock really could switch moods easily. John sighed and went back to the kitchen, considering taking his shower before he ate anything. He wasn't actually hungry, and he had just gone out of his way to get _Sherlock_ to eat something. _Oh, whatever. _He'd just locked the bathroom door when he thought he heard something in the flat. He froze.

"Sherlock?"

No answer. He swallowed with difficulty. His handgun was in his room, there was no way he could get to it if this was yet another kidnapper. He waited a few seconds, but there were no more noises. Maybe he'd just invented it all. While he was under the shower, he remembered something Sherlock had said. _Moriarty said he didn't have you._ He'd contacted Moriarty. _Damn_.

He finished showering quickly and rushed out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel, turning his laptop on. While it was loading, he went back to the kitchen to have his sandwich. He stopped and stared at the plate. Out of the two sandwiches he'd prepared, only one was left.

"Oh, Sherlock..." he murmured fondly.

"Excuse me?"

John jumped and held his towel into place as he turned to meet eyes with a complete stranger, who'd just entered their flat unannounced. The man was tall and ruddy, his eyes clear, his complexion sanguine. He looked as embarrassed as the doctor felt.

"Your landlady said I should just come in... Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"No, I'm his... colleague."

The man seemed to doubt that very much.

"... I see. Well, do you mind if I wait here for him? I've come quite a long way, and I'd like to be back to Norfolk tonight."

"Norfolk? You came all the way from Norfolk?"

The stranger nodded.

"And I am very intent on going back tonight. You see, such strange events have occurred, and I wouldn't want to leave my wife alone even for one night."

"I see... No I don't. Please have a seat, and, uhm... can you just wait a second while I..."

"That would probably be better, indeed. I wouldn't want your... _colleague_ to get any ideas when he comes back."

John blushed.

"...Right. I'm John Watson, by the way. Dr. John Watson."

"Hilton Cubitt."

Half an hour later, they were having tea as John took down everything their new client was telling him.

"So... You've been married for a year, and you've come because about a month ago your wife received a strange email with very queer smileys and when you asked her about it jokingly you saw she was very pale and looked utterly terrified, and she deleted the email right away. But since you promised her the day before the wedding that you'd never ask her anything she didn't want to talk about, you didn't press the matter further?"

John was disbelieving, but Hilton was dead serious.

"Exactly."

"... Right. And you decided to come because she kept receiving those weird messages, both on her email and her blog."

"Yes. I found them most peculiar because it was a mysterious sequence of stick figures that looked like a child's drawing of..."

"... a series of little dancing men," John finished pensively.

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

_._

_._

_._

_**tbc  
**_


	10. Meddling 2

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* * *

**Chapter 10: Meddling (2)**

* * *

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Mycroft Holmes had very rarely been impressed in his life. It just wasn't something he was used to feeling – not that he was used to feeling much, mind you. But today D.I. Lestrade had managed to impress him. His attempt in itself had been quite pitiful, of course, and if some people might have considered it to be bravery, Mycroft would only see it as incredible stupidity. But it had nonetheless revealed something about the inspector: that he cared enough about Sherlock to throw away his whole career for him.

Mycroft had always seen him as a very fatherly figure for his little brother – a keeper, so to speak, who would look after him and whom Sherlock needed to get cases. In other words, Sherlock couldn't just shun Lestrade like he shunned _him._ He sighed.

He knew Sherlock would be affected by John's disappearance – that was the whole point. But if Lestrade was willing to sacrifice his job so John could go home earlier, then it meant Sherlock was in far worse condition than he'd thought. Not that the D.I. was particularly observant, or that he trusted his opinion. But his dramatic reaction implied that Sherlock hadn't even _bothered_ to hide his sentiments. He was so far gone he hadn't cared at all.

And so he'd let Lestrade get to John and bring the doctor back to Baker Street. In fact, his coming had served his purpose: there was no denying now that his little brother had become pathetically dependent on John's presence – or even just the idea of his presence, the certitude that he'd always come back.

He was roused out of his reverie by a very _noisy_ bustle downstairs and wondered what in the world was going on. It took him less than a second to understand, and he rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh.

"We've been watchin' the signs, we've been readin' the news, and now we're starin' amazed at your shame-faced bluuuuse..."

Two security guards came in and walked menacingly towards the drunk man, but the eccentric vagrant who'd burst into the Diogenes unannounced and was making a racket was surprisingly agile and _strong_, and dancing around drunkly, still managed to send them to the floor by aiming at some specific pressure points.

"We shoulda guessed it I guess, we shoulda guessed it... You've been walkin' the line like a bad man's dream, never pay who you lay, never say what you mean... You should get arrested!"

Mycroft burst into the room at the same time as three other guards, and Sherlock turned to them with a sparkling grin:

"Give us something to trust in! We've been wastin' our time on you. All we want is a fighting chance and you give us handstand weekends, peaches in the darkness, cool hand dealin', leeches lookin' harmless... You should get arrested, You should get arrested!"

He smirked as his brother walked up to him with a death glare, perhaps to stop the three guards from joining the two others on the floor – and also, perhaps, because he thought Sherlock couldn't handle _three_ of them, and regardless of how infuriating his little brother was, he would never want him to come to harm.

"Hello, brother," Sherlock said with a smile, tilting his head sweetly to the side.

"Follow me," Mycroft whispered back through gritted teeth, his face burning as he left the room with all the dignity he could manage. Once they were back in his office, he closed the door and turned to Sherlock with irritation and contempt.

"You never cease to embarrass me."

His patronizing tone made Sherlock snap, and he dropped the act.

"And you never cease to interfere with my life."

"If you were more responsible, I wouldn't have to."

"Responsible? _Responsible?_ I'm not the one who kidnaps people on a whim, _Mycroft_!"

"Would you please stop shouting? I can hear you quite well."

Sherlock's pupils lost their outraged sparkle and became icy.

"I came to tell you one thing, and I expect you to respect at least that: _never_ lay a hand on John Watson again."

Any other man than Mycroft would have shivered at the unfaltering tone and cold-blooded expression.

But this being Mycroft, the British government snorted, disbelieving and scornful.

"Dear God Sherlock, can you hear yourself?"

Sherlock's eyes turned to slits, but his mouth curved into a sardonic grin.

"And you? Do you get the sound, or just the image?"

Mycroft almost paled with rage at this, but in a second his disdainful pout was back. _So that's how you want to play? Fine. Have it your way. _

"Will you scream louder if I tell you I get no sound?"

Sherlock's grin grew wider.

"I might."

Mycroft walked closer to him, and his tone became falsely lighter.

"So, the bathroom? That was quite entertaining I must say. But really, Sherlock... '_I had wet dreams_'?"

Sherlock refrained from biting his lip and closed his eyes. Mycroft was hovering around him.

"Don't play that game, Sherlock, you're going to lose. I know you're ashamed. I hadn't seen you _cry_ in..."

"Stop it," Sherlock snarled. "You can spy on us all you want, Mycroft. You can put cameras in the bathroom and bugs under the bed if that's how you get your fun, _I don't care_."

"Really?"

"...But if you ever touch John again, you'll come to regret it. You know me, Mycroft. You do not want me as an enemy."

Mycroft scoffed.

"Possessive, aren't we? And I thought I was already your 'archenemy.' "

"But we both know that's not quite true anymore, don't we?" Sherlock replied coldly.

This time Mycroft almost shivered, seeing the emptiness in his little brother's eyes. He frowned.

"Sherlock..."

"Spare me the pitying speech of support," he cut in, turning to the door to leave.

"You are making a mistake, Sherlock. How many times must I tell you? _Caring_ is not an advantage. What will you do next time he disappears? When I am not the one behind it?"

"I will find him."

Mycroft laughed.

"You didn't find him this time, did you? And he was so close..."

Sherlock's gaze flared up.

"You're just confused. This is mere chemistry, Sherlock."

"But it does wonders."

"Haven't you experimented enough already? You're only going to get hurt."

"I already am. And it would've been worse if John hadn't been around."

"See? How could you be any more reliant?"

"I'm not _reliant_!"

"Oh _Sherlock_..."

"I don't need him! I want him."

"You are completely delusional, aren't you? Maybe you do want him, but above all you _need _him."

Sherlock shrugged. Clearly tired of the conversation, he put his hand on the door handle to leave. Mycroft's face darkened.

"Tell me... _What_ happened in the basement, Sherlock?"

The younger Holmes froze. Then he sneered.

"Oh, so you don't know that?" he said, a cynical grin playing on his lips, his eyes still fixed on the handle.

"I want to hear it from you."

"This is none of your business, _Mycroft_. I am fed up of you meddling with my life."

"Was it so bad?"

This time the caustic tone in Mycroft's voice made Sherlock look over his shoulder and lock eyes with his brother. He grinned sardonically.

"Is your sex life so non-existant you need to get the details of _other people's _to shake your boat? Or is it, perhaps, that you get off only on _me_ being fucked?"

Mycroft Holmes had never been rendered speechless in his entire life. As he stared dumbfounded at the door being slammed in his face dramatically, he realized that life was truly full of surprises.

.

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

Lestrade was sorting documents in his office, wondering when the sword of Damocles that was hanging over him would fall and cut right through him. He was expecting a call every five minutes, telling him that he was to be transferred to some God-forsaken place. So when Sergeant Donovan entered his office with a puzzled look and gave him a kraft envelope addressed to him specifically, he thought his time had come.

"Thank you, Donovan. You can leave now."

She eyed him suspiciously, but complied. Lestrade opened the envelope and was surprised to see no trace of a letter, but only a small USB flash drive that he almost missed. He took it out, puzzled, and wondered briefly if those were perhaps a series of compromising photographs or any kind of data, real or fake, that Mycroft intended to use against him to make his downfall complete. He gulped, but taking his courage in both hands, slotted the flash drive into his computer, and waited for the file to open. It was a video, with a ReadMe file attached.

Lestrade shivered. What could Mycroft possibly have filmed that could be used as a threat? He had always thought he had nothing to hide, but now he was very anxious to see what the elder Holmes had devised for him. He clicked on the video file nervously.

As the first images popped up on his screen, he froze. Gradually his face was filled with horror. He was too shocked to close the video, or even to turn the sound off. He watched, transfixed, until the very end.

"Oh God..."

It took him almost a minute before he could get out of his daze and open the ReadMe file. There was only one line, but it made his blood turn cold.

_**Thanks for helping my little puppet to get his pet back, inspector. Here's a treat! Yours truly, JM**_

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

John had been waiting for hours at home for Sherlock to come back, so when the disguised vagrant finally entered their living-room, he was sulking. He'd just gone so suddenly and left him behind, _again_. Even if coming back for the sandwich had been unexpectedly sweet of him, John still wished he'd answered his numerous texts.

"How did it go?"

"Fine."

The laconic answer and the bored tone unnerved John even more.

"What did you do?" he insisted.

"Talked to Mycroft."

"I know that, but..."

He was efficiently shut up by a cold pair of lips, and the hands roaming under his jumper persuaded him to just let go. He knew this was coaxing, but found the fact that Sherlock was trying to get himself forgiven by _snogging_ him incredibly arousing nonetheless. He melted into the kiss.

Sherlock on the other hand wasn't really involved in it. He was thinking about Mycroft, and where he might have put bugs and cameras in their flat. He knew it'd be pointless to look for them and get rid of them, unless they wanted to do so every day, for Big Brother would just have the place bugged over and over again. Of course he hated the idea that his brother was watching him. It was hard enough to have _John_ hearing him and watching him – but he could hardly get rid of him – so his own brother? _Mycroft_?

John wasn't stupid enough not to notice eventually that Sherlock wasn't paying attention at all. _What the hell?_ He'd just burst into the flat, barely answered his very legitimate questions, jumped on him to snog him senseless and he wasn't even _paying attention_? That was just adding insult to injury. John broke the kiss.

"Hey. Can't you just kiss me when you kiss me? Do you have to make it seem like you're doing me a favour?"

Sherlock was already on edge, and to be called back to reality in such a way when he was thinking didn't improve his already sour mood. He didn't understand at all why John should be feeling offended – did he really have to be so difficult now of all times?

"If it's not good enough for you, I just won't bother," he said, stepping back and taking off his coat.

John stared, dumbfounded.

"What do you mean you won't bother? Is this _a bother_ to you?"

"Oh, don't be daft, John."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

But Sherlock had frozen on the spot and was no longer listening to him. Frowning, John walked up to him and looked over his shoulder. The detective's eyes were fixed on the strange series of smileys that Cubitt had printed for him to see. The man had finally left to get on the last train to Norfolk, but John had to bear his presence all afternoon and listen to him being dotty about his wife for _hours_.

"A client came," he said moodily. "You've got a case. Here are the notes I took – not sure everything's relevant, but..."

He stopped in mid-sentence, as Sherlock didn't even seem to be listening to what he was saying and had just grabbed his laptop.

"Can't you at least use yours?" John snapped.

The detective ignored his comment and went online to check his website, almost frenetically. Panic was bubbling in his chest already – cold, implacable fear.

He didn't notice that John was feeling utterly discarded now, and simply thought it was all because Sherlock had got himself a new case.

John was standing in silence, watching his friend's back with a jaded look on his face. How could he have thought for a second that the detective would ever see him as something more than a nice teddy bear to cuddle when he was down? Sherlock didn't give a damn, and as he was already coping somewhat better, he'd clearly found that focusing on cases was just what he needed. So what, now? Would he just keep using him as a guinea pig?

John's thoughts were bitter, and they hurt. But he knew Sherlock hadn't lied. He had never hidden the fact that he only wished to _experiment_. John had just been a fool to expect anything else. And maybe, maybe, even a monster too – for hoping he could get out of a broken Sherlock something that the real Sherlock would never give him.

"I'm going out. Need some air."

He waited a few seconds by the door for an answer which never came. His flatmate's silence only confirmed him in his views. Turning to hide the pained look on his face, he left. _I'm pathetic_.

Sherlock heard the door shut behind his only friend. But his eyes remained fixed to the screen that was displaying a message – one small message, just a few words that had poured sheer terror and mortification into his chest, drowning him from the inside.

As John walked away from 221B, more vexed and hurt than words could describe, Sherlock was falling in a world of silence, his empty eyes unable to tear themselves away from the hope-consuming message.

_**Hello, beauty! Isn't your keeper nice to stand up to Big Brother just to get Johnny back? **_

_**But don't worry, I've sent him my best regards. So you can fully concentrate on my little riddle...**_

_**What do you think of the dancing men, Sherlock? :D**_

.

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

_._

_._

_._

**_tbc_ **


	11. Floundering

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* * *

**Chapter 11: Floundering  
**

* * *

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John was walking briskly up and down the streets of London rather aimlessly, only wishing to calm his nerves down a bit. He knew he had no right to be feeling so hurt and vexed about Sherlock's attitude: no right to be mad at him. Sherlock hadn't led him on to drop him, he'd been completely honest in everything he'd done and said. And so the doctor was mad at himself for being so petty about this, and for feeling discarded over a case.

_No_, he thought, _the case isn't the problem here. _What had truly been too much was Sherlock acting as if he'd been doing him a _favour_. Like fondling a pet because it is something that needs to be done, nothing more, nothing less. _"If it's not good enough for you, I just won't bother." _John winced. That had been clear enough, and it had been a slap in the face. Did Sherlock merely consider himself indebted, and feel like he owed him regular physical tokens of affection? It made John's stomach lurch, and he couldn't help remembering the revulsion and horror he'd felt when he'd entered the room before his lap dance – when Sherlock had been waiting for him and had lain back, spreading his legs, expressionless.

John shivered. Presently he became aware that he had no idea what was going on in that crazy little head; how Sherlock's brilliant yet sometimes completely clueless mind apprehended this whole situation. He'd been broken, but to what extent was he now back on track? John hadn't even had time to ask him about the five orange pips case... He stopped walking abruptly, realization hitting him. Sherlock hadn't used him as a distraction to ease his boredom and suddenly dropped him for the Work. He'd used that case as a way to _apologise_ to Lestrade because John had told him it wasn't good and he didn't have to be so rude all the time. He had snapped at Sherlock and had left him alone in the flat. He had made him feel _guilt_ and perhaps even panic that he would leave if Sherlock wasn't good enough – which was preposterous, but trauma usually triggered insecurity. So Sherlock had gone on the case to fix things, and when he'd come back, John hasn't been there. He must've been terrified because he thought Moriarty had kidnapped him again, but then he'd seen that all of his things were gone, and he had believed John had left him for good.

John groaned.

"Damn..."

He'd been such an idiot. Whatever was going on in Sherlock's mind, he had to stop snapping at him all the time. Fighting was nothing unusual for them, and they always made up within a day or so, because in the end John couldn't stay away from Sherlock for too long, and Sherlock felt like an abandoned puppy when John wasn't around. OK, so maybe not like an abandoned puppy, but he wanted him around nonetheless.

Considering recent events, however, he shouldn't take things for granted. Sherlock wouldn't just be fine every time he snapped, knowing for certain that he'd come back and everything would return to normal, because he'd lost that certainty. What had happened to him in the Basement and what ensued were things he could never have imagined, things he never even thought of. It had turned his life upside down and made him lose all his bearings. Then John had snapped at him because with Lestrade coming and Sherlock being a prick, everything seemed back to normal, and so it hadn't felt unusual to chide him. Except that it would never be 'back to normal' – if that held any sense for them anyway. Even if Sherlock appeared to be his usual self, which was a very good sign, the harm had been done. Then stupid Mycroft just had to kidnap John and Sherlock had to go through yet another trauma – the apparent evidence of being suddenly abandoned by his only friend.

John bit his lip and was already turning to go home when his phone vibrated. It was a call. Surprised, he picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hello, John? This is Lestrade."

"Greg? What's up?"

"Listen, I... are you with Sherlock right now?"

John felt his blood turn cold.

"No, I'm out. Why?"

Lestrade sighed, sounding relieved somehow.

"Listen, I... I just received a video..."

_Oh God, I am going to _kill_ Mycroft, _John thought as he started to run towards the main road to get a cab.

"A video of what happened in the basement."

John froze, transfixed with horror.

"You–"

"I got a note, too... I'm guessing this is from..."

"Jim Moriarty," John finished, his tone icy. His hatred for the man was boundless. If he ever saw him again, he would _slaughter_ him, even if it was the last thing he did.

"Did anyone else see it?"

"No, of course not!"

"Good. Destroy it."

"What? But John, it's evidence and–"

"Destroy it. Now. This isn't just any rape case, Greg. 'Evidence' will be useless. You'll never get to him. I bet you can't even see his face on the video."

"No, but–"

"Please, I'm begging you. Just destroy it. If anyone were to see it... if _Mycroft_ were to see it–"

"All right! Calm down. I'll destroy it."

"Thank you."

He hailed a cab.

"Look, John, if I can do anything–"

"Don't say a word to Sherlock about this for now. Never would be great, actually. But I bet Moriarty knows we'd agree that. He must've informed him in some way alrea..."

John stopped in mid-sentence. He had, hadn't he? Informed him.

"Oh God..."

"John? What's going on?"

"Nothing, just... I'll call you back."

"John!"

But he'd hung up already.

"221B Baker Street!" he shouted to the cabbie, praying silently that he wouldn't arrive to a dark, empty flat.

.

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

**.**

221B Baker Street was quiet tonight. A figure was standing at the window, holding a violin and a bow in each hand, but not playing. He was looking out on the street, and the cameras couldn't see his face.

That man had been standing there for an hour, holding his instrument but not playing. Listening to the silence.

When steps were heard down in the entrance and rushing up the stairs, before someone burst into the living-room, the figure didn't move. He remained standing still at the window, and the cold from the night seeping through the thin glasspane was creeping up his face already.

"Sherlock."

There was relief and dread in the voice, such a peculiar combination. But Sherlock remained silent.

John wondered if he'd been wrong – this scene felt rather familiar too: Sherlock, thinking about a case, and ignoring him, his violin in hand. Something was off, though. The quietness in the flat was almost surreal. Yet John couldn't bring himself to mention Lestrade's call, for he wasn't sure whether he'd been wrong or not: if Sherlock didn't know about Moriarty's little present to the D.I., then he certainly didn't want to tell him. He tried to sound relaxed as he asked:

"Have you eaten yet?"

He was greeted only by the silence and started to feel awkward. He went to the kitchen and checked the fridge – empty, of course. They hadn't had time to go grocery shopping these past few days. John looked at his watch and asked again:

"Are you up for Chinese? I can try and see if they still deliver at this hour, or if I can go for a take-away."

Sherlock still didn't answer. Half-annoyed, half-worried, John walked up to him and put a hand on his arm, forcing him to turn towards him gently.

"Sherlock?"

The lifeless face stupefied him on the spot. Sherlock was definitely not merely pondering the case and ignoring him because his comments about food weren't relevant.

Their eyes locked, and something flickered on Sherlock's face as he met John's gaze and drowned in it. He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out. John blinked, taken aback. Panic flashed in Sherlock's pupils and he suddenly turned to hide from him, but John had seen it and made him turn slowly back again, holding him by the elbows.

"Sherlock. Look at me." His voice was gentle and his tone self-possessed. Sherlock was hanging his head, but hearing that voice compelled him to comply.

"Here, look at me... Good. Can you speak, Sherlock?"

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and opened his mouth again, frowning angrily, probably about to snap that of course he could talk: but the words died in his throat, choking him. He looked so lost and frustrated that John stepped closer and embraced him tightly, feeling his pulse rocket in panic.

"Breathe, Sherlock. Slowly, and deeply. You're not suffocating, it's okay."

_It's not okay. It feels like I'm drowning inside my own body! _

He choked again, trying to force his voice out. John stepped back and looked him in the eye firmly, never letting go of his arms.

"Don't force it out, Sherlock. It's pointless. Just shake your head or nod, okay?"

Sherlock looked furious at what he considered to be a patronizing tone, and his gaze flared up. John's face became grave.

"Sherlock."

The detective took a deep breath, trying to calm the fury bubbling in his chest, the outrage he felt for being so weak, for being like anyone else, every common person, and even worse than everyone else because this whole bloody affair was getting under his skin so much and it shouldn't have, it shouldn't...

"Sherlock."

He looked up and gulped. Angering John was the last thing he wished to do. He nodded.

"What did you see on that piece of paper with the dancing smileys?"

Sherlock swallowed with difficulty, but brought John to his laptop and refreshed the image. The message he'd got on his website reappeared, and John read it, appalled.

"That's what you were looking at when I... Oh God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

Sherlock shrugged, putting his violin back into its case. _Not your fault. There's nothing you could do about it. It's no use. I'm no use. _He turned and went back to the window, looking out again. He felt less exposed that way. He knew no camera could see his face in this position, and no one out in the street would stop and stare at his ghastly figure behind the window pane.

John came up to his side again, closing the distance between their two bodies and hugging him from behind, his arms around his waist, his face buried in his shoulder blade. His body was much smaller than Sherlock's, but it was so warm and his heart was beating so regularly, surely, against his back that Sherlock felt surrounded, engulfed by the contact and his presence.

But all he could think was: _It's no use. I'm worthless. Now even Lestrade knows. I won't be able to get cases from him anymore. If Moriarty makes this video public, I won't have any client, the Work will be finished... I will be finished..._

"I'm here," cut in John's voice,shrouded in warmth. "Don't slip away. I'm here, Sherlock."

_I know you are. You're always here. Is it because you hope you can fix me? Because I can't be fixed, John. I'm not broken, just twisted, so twisted and crooked... It's not even Moriarty, it's me. Just me.  
_

"I wish I could hear you," John whispered, and he slipped his hand under Sherlock's shirt to rest it on his abdomen. Sherlock tensed abruptly, reminded of his nemesis's touch, but John's hand drew soothing circles on his belly. His skin was rough, not smooth at all, and yet the caress was so soft it almost made Sherlock cry.

Why was he so stupid? There was no reason this should get to him so much. It was completely illogical.  
So what if Mycroft had surveillance cameras in the flat? He'd always meddled. This was nothing new.  
What if Lestrade knew? If Sherlock were strong and firm and showed him this didn't affect him, the D.I. would still trust him with cases. He would find him reliable and there would be no problem. _The only problem is me... _I_ am the problem. _

This time John glided up in front of him instead of making him turn, and cupped his face with one hand, the other resting low on his back, his arm still circling his waist. Clear blue eyes plunged into the darker ones.

"What you feel is shame, Sherlock. It's... common among rape victims."

Sherlock didn't flinch at the words, and John knew he'd been right to be straightforward. No word should become taboo. _Nothing_ should become taboo.

"But you've got to understand that _you_ have nothing to be ashamed of. Moriarty used what you considered mere transport to show you it wasn't. He humiliated you. But if you accept it, if you come to terms with it... no, look at me Sherlock, don't avert your eyes. You're beautiful. You're amazing. You're brilliant and brave and so full of energy. I'm drawn to you like a moth to a flame, but a flame that animates as much as it burns. You must go beyond that shame, Sherlock. Reclaim your body and just be your dazzling self. Because whatever you think you are, twisted and crooked as it may be, you are admirable."

Sherlock blinked, befuddled. That was something he'd found very surprising – and pleasant – about John from day two. _That was amazing. Fantastic! That's brilliant_. _Remarkable. _He truly had expressed the thought in every possible variant available to the English language. And it had intrigued Sherlock to no end. John was the very first person to praise him. Before he knew it, Sherlock was leaning in and hugging John back, not as if his life depended on it, but in a spontaneous movement of gratefulness. He didn't mind that he couldn't speak for this, for he wouldn't have known what to say anyway.

Taken off guard, John blinked. Then a smile graced his lips and he nuzzled up against his partner's neck, relishing his scent. He felt so privileged to be able to be so close to Sherlock. But it was never close enough.

"You were holding your violin," he murmured against the soft pale skin, "but you weren't playing. Won't you play for me, Sherlock?"

The embrace slackened and Sherlock stepped back with a distressed look. He shook his head. John took his hand and kissed it reverently.

"All right. It's fine. How do you feel about Chinese?"

Sherlock shook his head again, distraught that he had to keep on refusing John. But he really didn't feel like eating at all.

"OK, then, put your coat on. We're going to Tesco."

At this, Sherlock blinked, twice. _Tesco? _What did that have to do with anything? But John was already walking towards the door.

"It's open all night today, remember? What am I saying... You never go grocery shopping, so why would you remember that."

Sherlock finally moved, picking up his coat and following John out. It all felt so surreal. Him, not speaking, and doing something as dull as grocery shopping.

"It's not dull if you go this late at night. Not many people do it."

Sherlock shrugged, before realizing John had perfectly guessed his thoughts. He stared, and John smirked.

"For once, you were being obvious."

Sherlock pouted. This was stupid. And so the two of them went to Tesco and spent an hour and a half there because Sherlock kept shaking his head at everything John showed him. He thought his friend would snap at one point and just give it up, picking whatever _he_ wanted to eat and not bother about him, but he didn't.

"Listen, we're not going home until you've chosen at least three things you're going to eat. I'm serious, we've got all night."

In the end, it was Sherlock who gave in, and picked at random eggs, bacon, and a lemon.

"A lemon? What the... oh, fine, whatever. But you're eating it, I'm warning you."

Sherlock nodded and John shrugged, muttering something about crazy geniuses and how in the world they survived if they were all as picky as this particular one. Sherlock followed him meekly with an innocent air, wondering how John's skin would taste with lemon juice spread over it.

It took another hour once they were back home to have Sherlock eat one egg, a slice of bacon and a piece of toast. His body was tense and his stomach felt tight, but he didn't want to disappoint John in any way. He'd do enough of that without knowing it, for sure.

"You'll have to tell me about that case you worked on – the five orange pips, was it? It still makes no sense to me."

Sherlock opened his mouth, and closed it, despair filling his face. John leant in and kissed his brow fondly.

"You don't have to tell me now, there's no rush. I just want to write about it."

That was something else, thought Sherlock. John recorded things about him, and not like Mycroft, for the purpose of surveillance and spying on him. He did it because he found it worth telling the world – because he found Sherlock and his cases fascinating, like something one could find in a novel. More than that, he wanted to _portray_ him, not only write about his job: _People want to know you're human. _Why? he'd asked. _Why?_ He still felt like John was putting things in too romantic a way, not focusing enough on the logic, but he guessed that's what "people" were more interested in.

John had felt the tension in the brow he'd kissed. Sherlock seemed on edge. _We've got to do something about that. _He stepped back and looked his partner in the eye, a smile on his lips.

"Sherlock. Feel like experimenting?"

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_oOo_

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_**tbc :)**_


	12. Massaging 1

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**Chapter 12: Massaging 1**

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John had felt the tension in the brow he'd kissed. Sherlock seemed on edge. _We've got to do something about that. _He stepped back and looked his partner in the eye, a smile on his lips.

"Sherlock. Feel like experimenting?"

Sherlock blinked in bewilderment. He never thought he would hear John say that. Then again, the nature of his 'experiments' had changed quite drastically of late.

He opened his mouth to reply but the words caught in his throat again. Anger flashed in his eyes as he clenched his fists in frustration. _I'm pathetic. _John caught his hands, sneaked his fingers inside the tight fists, and laced them with Sherlock's.

"Just nod."

Sherlock frowned, but something in his eyes lit up. _Nod? You're awfully sure of yourself_.

He nodded.

John smiled warmly and patted him on the shoulder.

"All right. Get in your pyjamas, I'll be right back."

Sherlock wondered if this was the kind of situation in which he was supposed to shower. But John hadn't asked that, had he? He hesitated for a moment before shrugging it off and changing. Sitting on his bed, he couldn't help but scan his room, wondering where Mycroft could've put cameras. The style of the room was so bare it was probably hard to bug it. He turned towards the door as John came in, wearing his striped pyjamas, and Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle silently.

"What? You think I look ridiculous?"

Sherlock nodded gleefully, a sparkle in his eyes, and it made John so happy he forgot to be offended.

"Oh I see. Well, I know how to cheer you up now."

Only then did Sherlock notice that the doctor had brought a large white bath towel and a bottle of massage oil. He stared. John sat on the bed and gave him a peck.

"Actually, it'd probably be easier if you wore that dreadful dressing gown of yours and nothing under it."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, clearly indignant. _What's wrong with my dressing gown? _John chuckled, pinching his cheek.

"Nothing, you idiot. Come on, just put it on."

Sherlock pouted but complied. This was new enough to distract him from the image of Lestrade watching the video Moriarty had sent him – moreover, he wanted to show some goodwill for John's sake.

Naked and lanky under the blue robe with his black curls falling over his brow and his pale skin, he looked so much like a child who'd grown too fast that John felt the urge to hug him and smother him with kisses until he spoke again – probably to protest that it was quite enough already. He smiled. That wouldn't work, though. Sherlock would surely find it patronizing, and not tender and loving as it would truly be intended.

Sherlock sat on the bed again and waited, looking at John inquiringly.

"Turn and face the other way. I'm going to massage your back."

Sherlock blinked. _A massage?_ He hadn't expected something so... chaste. As he felt John's hands on the nape of his neck, pulling his gown delicately to lay his shoulders and the top of his back bare, he gulped. Maybe even something this chaste would elicit unexpected reactions from _his_ body. Experimenting indeed.

He tensed as he felt the two palms spread oil generously on his neck and shoulder blades, gliding down his arms, stroking and palpating gently. _Lavender, _he thought. A whimper died in his throat.

Meanwhile, John was revelling in the softness of the porcelain white skin how delicate it was over the blue veins of the arms and the prominent bones. Clearly a man's body, yet he found it beautiful in a strange, mesmerizing way.

John had always been good at massages. Many women he'd slept with had told him his touch felt like that of a masseur sometimes, and it always made him laugh. He'd never seen someone so tense as Sherlock was now, though, and making him loosen up a bit was quite a challenge in itself.

"Don't stiffen up just because I'm touching you. Won't you try and relax instead?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to do as John asked. He actually liked the sensation of the rough hands on his skin. It felt good, he mused, warm, and soothing. He had to remind himself those were John's hands once in a while when the touch seemed too intimate and his skin crawled. He couldn't see the one who was touching him after all – just like when Moriarty had been standing behind him, playing with him like a puppet. He shivered.

"Hey. It's me," John whispered as he leant in to embrace him, sliding his hands to the front and running them over his torso. "Just relax."

Sherlock arched his back as his partner's fingers brushed against his nipples. His lips parted in rapture and his head fell back, but he made no sound. John kissed his exposed throat, sending a jolt of electricity down his spine. He stiffened.

"Don't tense, Sherlock. Just let go."

Slowly, the hands went back to his shoulders and started kneading energetically. At first Sherlock almost cowered, but suddenly John applied pressure _just so_ and he must have found a nerve, for he made the detective gasp and wriggle. He didn't stop though, and kept kneading more and more deeply, before letting go abruptly and stroking his neck and throat lightly. Sherlock fell back in his arms, exhausted and panting. Their eyes met as they faced each other upside down – Sherlock glared and John smirked, playing with a lock of hair.

"You weren't listening to me," he said facetiously.

Sherlock pouted and closed his eyes with a scoff. John's grin widened and he sneaked a hand back to the front, massaging the sensitive muscles of his friend's chest and abdomen, stimulating the nerves, trying to loosen up the tightness in the plexus, relaxing the superficial tissues and removing the stress. He imagined his hands had the power to soothe away all the pain and tension from Sherlock's body, and truly wished they did hold such magic.

Sherlock squirmed but as he met John's gaze again, he blushed and looked away, trying to let go. John bent and pressed his lips to his. It was a funny embrace, and Sherlock could feel John's nose on his chin. He chuckled softly into the kiss, and his partner took the opportunity to deepen it, sneaking his tongue in, caressing the inside of his mouth. Sherlock sighed and allowedhimself to melt. John's hands were now massaging his hips, waist and ribs, and the impaling tongue kept him in place. He realized the less he fidgeted and stiffened, the more intense the sensations were – which was probably why he stiffened in the first place, unwittingly. He wasn't used to deriving such pleasure from his body, and it was literally breath-taking.

John sat up, smiling. He moved back a little, replacing his knee under Sherlock's head with the rolled up towel, which he put below the base of his neck in order to stretch out his cramped muscles.

All flustered, Sherlock blinked, still breathless from the kiss. John knelt above his head and cradled it carefully, turning it slightly to the right. He kneaded the tight muscles along his collarbone, then gently rubbed the neck muscles down to the trapezius muscle. Sherlock's eyelids were half shut, his lips parted, and it made John want to eat him up. He licked his lips and swallowed with some difficulty. This wasn't supposed to turn him on. Switching hands, he turned the head in the other direction and relished the docility of his friend. Unable to resist the urge, he leant in swiftly and kissed his temple. Sherlock blinked in surprise. John smiled and used firm strokes to glide along his muscles, taking his time to work them out from the centre of the neck, shoulders and upper back.

Sherlock was positively unwinding, his chest heaving with little pants. He had no idea his flatmate had such unexpected skills. Well, not that unexpected for a doctor _and_ a 'Casanova', he guessed, but … A tinge of jealousy hit him, but was soon drowned by the mollifying touch. John kissed him, and whispered against his ear :

"Lie on the other side."

Sherlock rolled onto his chest, feeling the freshness of the sheet against his cheek. He looked so juvenile and beautifully candid that John just couldn't get enough. He wanted to see more. Pulling gently on his gown, he denuded the lanky body further, revealing his long, white back all the way down to the parting line of his buttocks. Sherlock shivered and felt a deep blush creep up his cheeks. _Don't think about the cameras_, he told himself. _Forget everyone else. Just think of John. _

Starting at the shoulder area, John spread his fingers and used his fingertips down his back in a raking motion, moving them alongside the spine where the nerves were most sensitive. Sherlock jolted but slackened just as soon, making obvious efforts to relax because it was what John had asked him to do. Smiling tenderly, his look somewhat pain-filled because he loved this man squirming under his touch so much it hurt, John altered the motion of his hands so that one went up one side of Sherlock's back while the other went down, kneading, palpating and raking rhythmically.

The more the tension accumulated in Sherlock's body dissolved, the more he felt submerged in hopelessness. Relaxing wasn't distracting him from anything, it was putting him face to face with his problems. All his repressed feelings went out in the open and he could no longer ignore them. He knew that this was the reason he cried every time he ejaculated, too. The release ripped him out of his soul and body, shredded him completely with the host of foreign sensations and overwhelming feelings. It was exhilarating and terrifying: it unlocked all the gates, letting out whatever was kept hidden deep inside him.

John's hands changed position on his back as he put his knees on either side of him. He could feel his oil-coated fingers facing away from the spine. His warm, rough palms were in the middle of his back, putting pressure on his trapezius and latissiumus dorsi. Thinking of the exact names of where John was touching somehow helped Sherlock relax. It put a part of his mind to use, and that meant it wouldn't wander off to some less enjoyable considerations. A hand sneaked up his spine all the way to the nape of his neck, fingers running through his hair, massaging the scalp.

"Stay with me, Sherlock. Would you like me to keep talking?"

Sherlock nodded, once. John kissed the cheek that was exposed, then pressed his lips to the temple, under the ear, down the throat, and suddenly back up on the corner of Sherlock's mouth, which had parted in delectation.

"Will you allow me to go in deeper ? Deeper in the muscles, I mean," he added precipitately, blushing.

Sherlock smirked, and nodded. Then after a pause, he nodded again. He knew John probably wouldn't get the meaning, but... _Go in deeper wherever you want. The deeper the better. _

John let his hands fall to Sherlock's lower back, pressing his palms slowly but firmly into the cold flesh. _Let's warm you up. _Using a gentle counter-clockwise motion, he circled his hand up his partner's back, looking for muscle fibres that felt shortened. When he found a knot, he would increase the pressure, using his fingertips to dig in and work the spot.

Sherlock gasped and panted, sometimes arching his back, but still his voice did not make it past his lips. He felt like dough being mixed, John's petrissage technique being thorough and efficient. Sherlock could actually _feel_ his knots tighten at first under the attack, then little by little be smoothed through the persistent kneading that was imposed on them. Expertly, John's hands grabbed his muscles and squeezed, tugging and pinching. When he hit a nerve or massaged a knot relentlessly until it surrendered to his ministrations, it was both painful and pleasurable, tearing Sherlock all over the place. It sent sparks and jolts of electricity throughout his whole body, animating him, giving him back his energy but also flooding him with feelings that threatened to drown him. He jolted as John found a knot in the middle of his back, where it curved.

"This zone is used in erotic massages because it is said to be especially sensitive... But yours is so tight this will probably hurt more than anything. If you don't shake your head, I'll do it, though. It's important that you relax this part of your body too. You should allow yourself to feel, Sherlock. Don't cut yourself off from sensations."

Sherlock swallowed nervously, but was careful not to move his head. So John went on, digging in and making Sherlock jump. A strangled cry escaped his lips. They both froze, surprised by the unexpected sound.

"Sherlock, you..."

Sherlock buried his face in the sheets and did not reply. Silently, with extreme care, John started to massage the knot again, putting gradually more pressure until Sherlock was arching his back, gasping, grabbing the sheets with clenched fists. _He really needs to let go. If I add more pressure, it'll hurt, but... _John considered the thought for a second before replacing his fingertips with his elbow, barely brushing the reddened skin at first. Sherlock trembled.

"Shh... Relax. Here, take my hand."

He slipped his left hand under Sherlock's fist, which slackened at the contact and held the hand tentatively – not from fear, but from shyness, John noted gleefully. He held the pale hand back, and pushed his elbow into the flesh at a slow but firm pace, working the knot. Sherlock hissed and thrashed, grabbing John's hand with desperation and squeezing it so tightly it was painful. But John barely noticed, for it didn't matter: all that mattered was that Sherlock relaxed enough to gain energy.

"Good, Sherlock, it's good... breathe more deeply," he murmured while stroking soothing circles with his thumb on the back of the long, white hand that was clutching his.

Sherlock kept writhing helplessly but didn't push John back and showed no sign of protest. He was struggling – not against John, but against himself. He wanted nothing other than to push his friend away, make the sensations and feelings that were flooding him _stop _because it was too much. It felt like such a breach in his privacy that he had to remind himself every second that he wanted this, wanted John to stay... _Because he stayed even though you were broken, even though you weren't even brilliant, even though you were sullied and mutilated... Because he said that you weren't and exposed himself, broke himself down in order to be at your level again. He stayed, he stayed, and what can you give him? _

The first knot had melted considerably and John had passed on to the next one, and the next one, all those knots that were binding Sherlock's body from the inside, in a place he didn't have access to and couldn't control. The middle of the back was a tricky area for muscles, indeed, if Sherlock's squeaks, pants and writhing were anything to go by.

"Deep massage can be painful, but it allows the affected area to be realigned and knots worked out," John recited, "it improves blood flow, which helps replenish nutrients in the muscle as well as remove toxins."

Sherlock tried to focus his attention on the offered data, but his brain was terribly confused with the onslaught of electric sparks and painful jolts, waves of pleasure and shivers, and the fear, the fear that was beating frantically in his chest, right under the plexus, playing a drum rhapsody along with self-disgust.

"Just let go, Sherlock. You're the only one binding yourself. I promise you'll feel better."

Sherlock was almost convulsing now, crying into the sheets because he hated the feeling, hated being so ridiculously vulnerable, and it was such a paradoxical sensation. He was infinitely ashamed that John was seeing him in such a state, but he knew John was the only one he'd ever allow to see it, because he wanted him by his side even in the most desperate times... _The only one? What about Mycroft's cameras?_

Sherlock's eyes widened. As John impaled him with his elbow once more he gasped and his moan was drowned in his throat again, coming out as a hiss. His hand searched for John's arm desperately, catching the wrist. John saw the move and in a final gesture, racked the zone with his elbow.

Sherlock arched his back and screamed, coming.

Coming... _Coming? _He hadn't even realized he'd had an erection. Everything was just too much, the pain and the pleasure, the sensations in their novelty and sheer intensity, and he barely realized that John was picking him up, wrapping him in the towel like an infant, smothering him with gentle, soothing kisses. Sherlock could've stopped if he wanted to: he could've just pushed his partner back, could've walked away, but he didn't. He refused to let hidden cameras win, whether Moriarty's or his brother's. He didn't want to be buried in silence, where even John would never reach him. So he accepted the shame, the pain and the love. _The love? I'm not thinking straight, using concepts I can't fathom... _

Wrapped in John's arms, he cried from rage and was let him rock their two bodies soothingly, as if cradling a child to sleep, kissing away the tears, smothering his whole face, neck, back and torso, never letting go of his left hand, his right arm around his waist.

"It's fine, Sherlock... It's all fine... Suppressing your feelings won't help. That's what makes people weak in the end. You're brilliant enough to be lucid about things, and lucidity can be a gift, even if it scares common people... You're nothing common, and this is your strength."

Trembling, Sherlock was trying to keep his distance because his waist and thighs and legs felt disgusting and sticky, and he didn't want John to be dirtied because of him. Noticing him drawing back, John frowned and cupped Sherlock's face, locking their eyes.

"Hey."

Sherlock blinked, twice, and his cheeks turned pink, glowing. He was so lovely John felt the urge to kiss him, but he didn't want Sherlock to feel like he was a mere object and had to put up with John's every whim.

But of course, this being _Sherlock_, he noticed the dilated pupils and the quickened pulse. A shy smile graced his lips imperceptibly, and he leant in, pressing his lips to John's, whose eyes widened in surprise. He melted. _Oh, Sherlock._

The kiss was sweet and loving, delicate like a caress but not chaste. It wasn't hungry and violent, which was what startled John the most, as Sherlock's kisses were usually desperate and passionate, almost bruising. It gave him the distinct feeling that his friend was kissing him not for himself, but truly for _him._ His lips pressed to his, his tongue dancing with his, his nose rubbing his, everything was so soft and tentative, yet fervent... His kiss felt like a gift.

It lasted forever, because it was gentle enough to allow regular breathing, and they didn't gasp for air. Sleep was taking its toll on them. They hadn't slept in about forty-eight hours, and thanks to Mycroft's meddling, they were exhausted. John had never snogged and cuddled until both participants fell asleep, and he found it was an amazing experience. It didn't even matter if it was just an experiment to Sherlock. In this instant, John couldn't doubt his affection for a second: Sherlock's kisses, Sherlock's strokes, Sherlock's entire body were expressing gratefulness, tenderness... John didn't dare think _love_. He made a mental note that Sherlock was most affectionate when sleepy and relaxed.

They fell asleep gradually, and neither would remember exactly at what point they did, nor which of them did first.

John dreamt of pale hands and damp curls, of well-defined lips and glowing cheeks, of long fingers playing the violin, of music and a melody... A melody...

His eyes snapped open. It was morning already, he could tell from the light. The bed was cold, and Sherlock had disappeared from his side. But John hadn't dreamt the music. It was coming from the living-room, filling the flat.

_Won't you play for me?_ John had asked the previous night. And Sherlock was playing, playing like he'd never heard him play.

_Bach's sonata n°1, Presto._

It made John feel like crying.

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**xXx**

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**tbc**


	13. Giving

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**Chapter 13: Giving**

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As always in the morning, Sherlock woke before John. He who had always found sleep dull and useless now wondered if sleep wasn't all about opening his eyes to John's slumbering form. It made him want to wake up again and again, John always the first thing he saw; John always the last thing he felt before falling in a world of dreams.

Because he'd started dreaming, too. Every night. Black dreams filled with guns, a singsong voice and trembling limbs, red dreams filled with knives and teeth and bloodied flesh. White dreams filled with nothing but pain and pleasure, so intense it made him blank out to the next dream and _black_, _red_, _white_ again, and again, and again... Today he'd woken up to _black_, and John's image as he was sleeping peacefully on his side, facing him, had dispelled the guns and silenced the abhorred voice. On an impulse, Sherlock brought a shaking hand to the warm chest heaving before him, just to feel the warmth. Just to feel the ever reassuring beat. He had no idea what he'd do if it stopped some day. If the Woman's death had been a blow, he didn't want to know what John's would do to him. In that regard, Sherlock knew Mycroft was right, even if he would never admit it out loud.

He pressed his hand closer, like a child reaching for his mother, feeling lost and surprised. Never would he have expected that some day, another person's heartbeat would be the most precious thing in the world. It didn't make sense; it was beyond logic, and Sherlock never liked 'beyond logic'. Often it was a synonym for stupidity. And perhaps he had become stupid, but the beating under his palm struck him as a miracle. Sherlock didn't believe in destiny and didn't feel that meeting John had been a necessity. It was pure contingency. And that was why it felt like such an incredible _gift._

Sherlock had never been good with gifts. His parents' gifts had never truly felt like gifts, except for the eye patch his father had bought him on the last Christmas before he died, and the chemistry set Mycroft had given him the next Christmas to _comfort_ him. Sherlock had wanted nothing but to hurl the whole set in his brother's face at first, but after a few days, he'd started experimenting. He'd never stopped.

Sherlock wasn't good with gifts because he didn't understand the concept. He'd read _The Gift_ by Marcel Mauss at age seven, and gifts without payback didn't make sense to him. When his father had bought him the eye patch, he'd drawn him a ship with Mummy as the Captain and Daddy as the lookout perched on the crow's nest. Sherlock was at the helm leading the way, and Mycroft was a ship's apprentice washing the deck. As for Mycroft's gift, the chemistry set, he had waited a whole month before blowing up his brother's room which was right above his 'lab'. That had been his gift.

He'd always found something to give back for the very few 'gifts' he had ever received. But today, he was at a loss. His own uselessness slapped him in the face. John was giving him so much, too much, and he had nothing to give in return. He'd tried to convey his gratefulness in each kiss he'd given John the previous night, to convey the apology and the anguish of not finding anything to give him. His fervour had been spontaneous and desperate. Every gesture had screamed _Thank you for everything you've done, everything you do, everything you keep doing, because I'm not giving you anything in exchange._

John's touch had torn him all over the place, physically, mentally, and emotionally. The spots he had touched and the fact that it was _John_ touching him completely blurred the limit between those three planes – his body, his mind, his 'heart'. It made the distinction pointless. It was paradoxically by shattering him to pieces that John managed to merge all those planes and make Sherlock be "one", body and soul.

Sherlock groaned. That lousy concept again. A _soul_. It was as if John had stirred something in him that could be called that, but it made no sense to Sherlock. Perhaps he'd have to ask John about it.

John. What could he give him? A surge of deep hatred for his nemesis filled his chest. Why did he have to take _everything _away from him? Couldn't he leave him just one thing, one little thing that was his own and that John hadn't given him back, so he could offer it to the one to whom he owed so much? But Moriarty's defilement had been perfect; his technique to break him, complete and exquisite. As always, Sherlock was compelled to admire the work.

But he couldn't forgive him. He had never hated Moriarty, quite the contrary in fact. He was the most exciting opponent he ever had. But then there was the Pool, and the Basement... It all felt like a betrayal. John wasn't part of their game, he shouldn't have appeared on the chess board. This wasn't playing fair. It was a direct attack against his person, and it threw the game off balance. They weren't playing against each other anymore, Moriarty was playing _with_ him as if he were a toy. And it was no surprise that such a man would enjoy breaking his toys.

Except that Sherlock wasn't a toy. He had considered Moriarty as an equal, a sparring-partner with whom he could do some brilliant mental fencing. But suddenly Moriarty had taken out the gun and shot him. It was so unexpected that it would've been unworthy of him, had he not done the breaking so masterfully. Even in cheating, he had been brilliant. Sherlock hated him for it.

John stirred and Sherlock froze. He wasn't ready to face him yet. He hadn't found anything to give him. Panicked, he withdrew his hand from the invaluable chest and shrank back, holding his breath. John didn't wake up and Sherlock took the chance to sneak out of the bed and leave the room. He was still stark naked but didn't dare move around his room to get some clothes, for fear of rousing his partner. Looking down at his glistening body still smelling of lavender, he wondered how John could possibly find it attractive. His skin was too white, almost hairless, giving him an androgynous appearance. His limbs were long and awkward, and overall his whole body was rather lanky. His shapes could never be mistaken for a woman's, and John was straight to begin with. Sherlock didn't understand how he could kiss those lips too full and too big for his thin face, how he could look in his eerily clear pupils and still want to hold him.

Swallowing with difficulty, he looked away and walked to the living-room to put on his coat. His body was perfect for transport. For anything else, it was just grotesque.

He went to the window and looked out in the street absent-mindedly. There had to be something. Something he could do for John. The piece of paper with the little dancing men was still lying on the living-room table next to John's laptop. Sherlock knew he'd have to take care of it sooner or later. This wasn't something to give John, but it was necessary to ensure his safety. Sherlock didn't feel like playing with Moriarty at all – he wanted to crush the man. This was a little game his archenemy had set to have his own fun while he "watched him dance". He clenched his fists. _Fine_. He'd play. He'd win. Then he'd set his own rules and destroy Moriarty.

_If you do that, he'll probably kill John. There will always be a sniper. You can't outsmart a sniper - __eventually, __he will always take you by surprise. John will die. _

Sherlock's face darkened. Then he'd just have to part with John. Make him leave Baker Street or leave it himself. Never talk to him again, never approach him – cut all ties. _And you think that will be enough? You won't fool Moriarty. He knows you. _He did, didn't he? Then Sherlock should have an accident first – a concussion, and fake amnesia. Even to John. He'd pretend not to remember anything, and after a week or so throw John out of Baker Street. _Can you really do that? Do you think you have it in you? _A shiver ran down his spine. What was he thinking? Throwing John out just to get revenge? It was insane. What would be the point? _John would live... _Maybe. Or maybe not. Sherlock had no guarantee whatsoever that John would live even if he severed their bond and detached himself from him. Was it worth the risk? Was hurting him worth the possibility of saving his life? Was there any other way?

_You can just stop doing cases. Don't play the game. Remain broken and stupid. Moriarty won't bother with you anymore, and John will be safe. _

Sherlock felt a lump in his throat. Give up the Work? Could he really do that and live with himself? It was already hard enough as it was...

He'd created the job for himself. A unique job for a unique mind – that wasn't to say the most brilliant mind of all, but one that wasn't satisfied with just research in labs or higher philosophical spheres. For a mind so concerned with logic, it was strange indeed that he'd chosen _people_ the object for his deductions. People, who were moved by passions and sometimes acted irrationally. People, who were so full of _sentiments_. Maybe it was all part of the razzle-dazzle, Sherlock thought. Every genius craved an audience. And usually scientists and philosophers didn't have many admirers – not before they died, anyway. Moreover only criminals could provide the thrill Sherlock pined for. Most researchers didn't risk their lives, but Sherlock did, almost on an everyday basis. It was only logical that whoever became close to him would be put in jeopardy.

_But John needs the thrill, too_, he tried to reassure himself. _He loves the cases and the "adventure" as he so romantically puts it. _But was that really it? If John had been attracted to him from day one, then his admiration for Sherlock's intellect was only secondary. It was just chemistry. Simple chemistry...

A pained expression filled Sherlock's face. Moriarty had been right, of course. He couldn't have hurt him otherwise. Sherlock had declared he wasn't interested in sex and relationships, decreeing that it wasn't his area. _Boring. _And dangerous, too. He didn't want to bother with something so messy. But sex and sentiments were two separate things. Mycroft certainly had no sentiments, not even many feelings at all, Sherlock mused, and yet he didn't run away from sex like Sherlock did. Probably just like Moriarty. Such above average minds were curious by nature and would want to try everything at least once in their lives. Sherlock's error had been to delude himself so badly. It wasn't that he didn't care. He'd never even tried. What was hidden behind his ostentatious lack of interest in sex wasn't indifference, but fear. Fear of getting caught up into it. Fear of losing control. If he truly hadn't cared, he'd have done just like Mycroft or Moriarty. He'd have tried, got bored, and would've had recourse to it punctually only when he deemed it absolutely necessary.

But that was not what he'd done. He had carefully avoided it, putting it in the same bag as 'sentiments': messy, dangerous. And since when did he get scared instead of excited at the word 'dangerous'? _Because this is about your body. You have no confidence at all when it comes to this. Your mind is brilliant, and this you can show off to the world. But your body? It's ridiculous. You're not comfortable with it. It's good to fight and run and sneak around, good for "leg work" as Mycroft puts it. Your senses are useful to identify things, to help you in your deductions. Just feeling for feeling... you always deemed it pointless. _Except with drugs. Drugs had been salutary. At an age when any healthy young man chases after girls and drinks on bad days (and even on good ones), Sherlock could find nothing to ease the boredom. Nothing to fascinate him, nothing to attract him and stir life in his body. People were boring and stupid. The world was dull and absurd. Even when there was something interesting going on, nobody listened to him. So he started telling what he knew would trigger a reaction from people. He started deducing them and spouting it into their faces. Everyone was so selfish. He thought they'd be interested in what he said, since it was about themselves. _Look at all I can tell about you from one look. _But people weren't interested. They got mad. At one point, he stopped counting the number of "Piss off!" Boring, boring, boring... Drugs weren't boring. They opened a whole new world of sensations and cleared his mind. He felt that his intellect could thrive that way.

In the end, he'd replaced them with cases from the Met. Many weren't worth his talents, but some were more challenging and he'd forget to be bored for a few hours. Then there was his research, too. Tobacco ashes and so on. It was crucial to his job. Once he'd set a centre of gravity for himself – the Work, consulting detective – it was easier to ordinate everything accordingly so it would revolve around it. He started deleting useless things even more than before. His mind was what made him special; his mind was what could bring him some recognition. Even if in fact, being his usual insufferable self, it just made him more enemies. Everyone who knew him at the Met hated him – aside from Lestrade. It didn't really matter, though. Hating him meant that they felt inferior to him and recognized the brilliancy of his mind.

Pressing his forehead to the cold windowpane, Sherlock closed his eyes. When he was little, he remembered, he used to enjoy experimenting with his body. He was a very curious child, always asking questions, always trying out new things. He couldn't remember when or how this approach to the world had stopped. But one day he'd stopped being a child and had become self-conscious – to some extent. More precisely, only where his body was concerned.

His biggest mistake had been his lack of lucidity. Worse, his self-delusion. A genius like him couldn't lack lucidity unless he put the blinkers on himself. And he had, out of fear and lack of confidence. He'd averted his eyes and hadn't even acknowledged it. That was why Moriarty had managed to break him. Sherlock had never been a sociopath, even a high-functioning one. He'd always had a heart, somewhere. Mycroft had known, and that was why he was always being so sickeningly patronizing – adamant about "protecting" him. Moriarty had known, and that was how he had succeeded in dismantling him.

Sherlock furrowed his brow against the windowpane. Had John known? From what he'd read on his blog, he never believed him to be a sociopath and regretted calling him that very quickly. He always seemed to overestimate him, and his disappointed gaze was one of the things Sherlock hated the most. _Shame_. Nothing like the physical shame Moriarty had made him endure in front of John, but shame nonetheless.

Whether he'd been aware of it before the Basement, now John definitely knew. But he hadn't been patronizing, and he hadn't taken advantage of it to destroy him even further. John wasn't a genius and so didn't react like geniuses who always love humiliating their peers to push themselves to the fore. He'd reacted like the infatuated friend that he was, like the soldier and the doctor: he'd given him everything. And Sherlock had no idea how to pay him back.

What had he asked of him? That Sherlock told him what he'd do before experimenting. That he wouldn't run away from this – _from us_, Sherlock thought. Then there were the things John never asked but obviously desired very much. His body, for one thing (even if that was beyond Sherlock's comprehension); his affection, and signs that he cared; him getting better. And finally, there were the things John himself wasn't aware of: what Sherlock called his 'kinks'. He could definitely explore those.

But it wasn't enough in Sherlock's eyes. John had given him so much more than sexual gratification that repaying him with so little seemed disproportionate. Even if to Sherlock, it didn't feel like too little, especially when it implied he had to give up his control. He knew he would, though. For John. Even if the doctor never asked directly.

Sherlock's eyes snapped opened and he retreated from the window. There was something John had asked directly. Something he couldn't give him yesterday, but could today. Maybe. Maybe...

Running to his violin case, he picked up the instrument and held it to his chin. The hand holding his bow trembled slightly, and he had to take a deeper breath. He knew what he wanted to play, knew exactly what piece would feel right in this very moment. But he wasn't sure he could manage to play it. He swallowed. If he didn't succeed, John would still hear him. He'd hear his pitiful attempt, and know that he had failed. The trembling got worse and he closed his eyes.

He'd had enough with fear. He'd been a coward and his self-delusion had almost cost him his life – not to mention John's. What had brought him back was his friend pretending to be severely injured in hospital. What had kept him from leaving again was still John, breaking himself to pieces to renew their bond and show him how to dance with shattered pieces. He'd recreated a world where both of them could exist and understand each other to some extent, recreated the invaluable sense of intimacy they had shared, all the more precious to Sherlock as it wasn't based on an equal massive intellect, but on something he couldn't quite put his finger. Something which deserved to be celebrated. Something...

His eyes snapped open as the first sound broke the morning silence. He hadn't realized he'd started playing until he heard the first note of the piece. _Bach Sonata n°1, Presto._ And after the first note the second came almost instantly. The _presto_ didn't leave him time to waver anymore, and he felt as if his hands were playing of their own accord. He closed his eyes again. _No_, he thought. _Not of their own accord. _In the darkness behind his eyelids, he could see the light flow freely, enthusiastically, like the currents linking the different elements of his mind palace. The flow wasn't part of the palace, but what allowed it to stand tall and vibrant. Sherlock felt a touch on his back, fingers in his hair, a mouth on his chin, hands roaming on his torso and thighs, a foreign body stirring life into his. From his chest, beyond the fear, came rushing this improbable flow.

There was still nothing he could give to John. But this light in his chest enabled him to create music again. And even if it was just a cry, desperate and vehement in the devotion and gratitude it expressed, still it was something John could hear: a confession, and a promise.

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* * *

**xXx**

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**.**

**.**

**.**

_tbc_


	14. Holding

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**Chapter 14: Holding**

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John had never been roused from his sleep by music – especially such mind-blowing playing. He wanted to get up right away and join Sherlock in the living-room. But maybe doing so stark naked wasn't the best of ideas. Getting up, he moved to Sherlock's wardrobe and opened it to find something, if only a shirt, that would fit him. He'd have to bring some clothes to Sherlock's room if that were to happen again.

John blushed. _Happen again? _Would it? How many times? Endlessly?

He shrugged it off. This wasn't the time to consider such things. What he needed right now was...

He froze. Among Sherlock's shirts, neatly folded, was one of John's jumpers. A greyish one he didn't wear much. He reached out and touched it gingerly.

_What the..._

Then it dawned on him. Sherlock had thought he was leaving him for good when he'd seen all of John's things were gone. Except a few which still lingered around the flat... He had said something about gathering them and putting it all on John's bed, hadn't he?

_He must've taken it then..._

One of his own jumpers. Why would he take a jumper? _He wanted to keep something of me... but he took something I didn't wear much, something I didn't really like..._

His heart clenched. Picturing Sherlock gathering his last remaining belongings around the flat, believing that he was leaving him... How must he have felt? It must have been so painful...

Deeply moved, John took the jumper out of the wardrobe and slipped it on. Forgetting all about decency, he put nothing under it: no trousers, no underwear. It no longer mattered. He hadn't wanted to shock Sherlock at first – getting up and bursting in their living-room _au naturel_ did not sound like a good idea for someone who was so unfamiliar with 'mornings after'. But having seen the jumper, John _did_ want to shock Sherlock now. Shock him into the realization that he wasn't leaving. Not now, not ever. And that Sherlock was worth so much more than a disliked jumper.

John burst into their living-room and came to a halt, subjugated.

Sherlock was nude under his coat, playing the violin in the morning light, his back to the window. Silhouetted against the greyness of dawn that was being shattered by the first rays of daylight, his profile was as breathtaking as the notes he was playing. Sublime. _Beautiful Sherlock, unbelievable Sherlock, oblivious Sherlock, gifted Sherlock..._

John fell in love all over again.

Eyes closed, Sherlock was so intensely engaged in his playing that he didn't hear his friend coming. As he drew the last notes of the _sonata,_ he felt his chest clench and his brow tensed with an expression akin to pain. He finished the piece and finally opened his eyes.

Trembling slightly from the passion that was still vibrating throughout his body, Sherlock turned toward the kitchen and caught sight of John. His eyes widened and locked with his partner's. He opened his mouth, and...

"John."

John didn't think he could've been happier if he'd just heard his son's first word and if it had been "Dad!"  
His face shone. Sherlock was speaking. He was _speaking_. He was also inconceivably arousing, completely naked under that bloody coat of his...

But John's exhilaration did not last long.

Sherlock had noticed the jumper. His face filled with panic. Abruptly turning back towards the couch, he put his violin in its case, stumbling, not knowing what he was doing anymore. Many thoughts assailed him all at once and he short-circuited. His first reaction had been to run away, but he couldn't because he was still holding his instrument and he had to put it back so it wouldn't be damaged. _Clothes, too. _He couldn't run out into the street naked under his coat, even if it was long. Also, John would try to stop him – there was no way he could get to his room to grab some clothes without a direct confrontation and yet he had to, he–

Flustered by the many thoughts jostling together in his mind, his arms and hands shook as he closed the case. John frowned, surprised by such a strong reaction. He walked up to him, reaching forward.

"Hey..."

Sherlock jumped.

"It's not me! I didn't steal it..."

John blinked, not sure suddenly whether he was really awake. Then he burst into laughter – which may not have been very tactful, considering his flatmate's current disoriented state.

Sherlock was baffled by John's reaction. He was ashamed and terrified because he felt like a complete idiot and wasn't used to it – but then John had to _laugh_ and now he was utterly bewildered. He did feel slightly miffed, but didn't dare show it. He was too much in the wrong to be offended by mockery, wasn't he?

It wasn't mockery, though, even if the genius detective didn't realize it. John was just as puzzled as Sherlock. Slipping his arm around his waist, he brought him closer and tiptoed to kiss him. The moment their lips touched Sherlock jumped back. A flash of worry traversed John's gaze.

"Sherlock..."

"Morning breath. And I haven't showered," Sherlock said preemptively.

John bit his lips to prevent himself from laughing again, but naturally Sherlock noticed and scowled.

"Why am I so funny to you?"

"You're not. You're just... so refreshing," John explained, trying to avoid the word 'adorable' which would only serve to scare Sherlock away. He was jumpy enough as it was.

Sherlock pouted, clearly unconvinced. John couldn't resist and kissed him again, bringing him down to his level this time, his hand running through the black curls. Sherlock didn't jump back, but shivered when they parted.

"Did you taste it?"

"What?"

"My morning breath."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"No, but..."

"Just stop worrying about such little things. So... why are you naked in our living-room?"

Sherlock blushed.

"I'm not naked!"

"That coat isn't clothing. It's a sex accessory."

"_Excuse me?_"

John kissed him again, silencing him effectively. He wouldn't be able to stop if Sherlock kept being so damned adorable and oblivious about it.

Sherlock squirmed and mumbled a protest against the warm pair of lips pressed to his. This wasn't good. He had to get away. John was holding him securely though, so he had to distract him a bit if he wanted to avoid the upcoming conversation... Deepening the kiss, he explored John's mouth and made a note of his every sound. When he sneaked a hand up John's back under the jumper, pressing their two bodies closer together, rubbing their torsos and groins, the smaller man positively moaned. Sherlock smirked into the kiss, before remembering why he was doing this. Right. The plan. There was a plan. It was almost reluctantly that he moved slightly so John had his back to the window, and suddenly, taking advantage of his partner's relaxed grip, sneaked out of his arms and made a run for his room. It took John a second to realize what was going on. He ran after him, only to have the door slammed in his face.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, outraged.

He considered banging on the door, but on second thought decided against it. He could hear Sherlock's erratic breathing just behind the wooden panel. John rested his hand against it instead.

"Sherlock. What are we doing?"

He couldn't make out the muffled words muttered against the door.

"What?" he asked, listening carefully.

"I'm sorry I took your jumper... You can have it back..." the smothered voice replied somewhat sulkily, yet with a noticeable tinge of embarrassment.

John's eyes widened, and he smiled. _Sherlock, Sherlock... _Only he could manage to be so imperious yet so shy all at once.

"Sherlock. Do you remember rule number two?"

An unhappy grumble told John that Sherlock remembered very well.

"Sherlock. Please come out."

"Will you keep beginning your every sentence with my name?"

John chuckled.

"I don't know, maybe... Sherlock."

He could perfectly picture the pouting face of his friend as he groaned, half-grumpily, half-sheepishly. _Interesting combination_.

"Please come out," John repeated in a graver tone, his palm tensing a little against the door. _Please_.

Sherlock took a deep breath, silent behind the door panel. John had said "we". _What are we doing? _Strangely, Sherlock was very moved about the choice of pronoun. He complied and opened the door.

… looking everywhere but in John's eyes. John winced imperceptibly, wondering what he had done to make Sherlock feel so unsure and so out of place with him. He knew he wasn't the direct cause, and that the shame came from someone else entirely – someone he'd gladly slaughter at the moment. But did it really? John couldn't help but feel responsible to some extent. If Sherlock kept wanting to run away from him, then there must be something he wasn't doing right.

As if he'd been reading his thoughts, Sherlock suddenly nudged John's hand to snap him out of his self-derogatory considerations. Only then did John realize that he'd been slowly lowering his gaze until it was cast down, his face shadowed in dark introspection. He looked up to meet a pair of piercing blue eyes.

Sherlock swallowed, but didn't avert his gaze. As John felt the long fingers withdraw, he swiftly caught the retreating hand and pressed it, staring at the detective intensely. Slowly, Sherlock pressed back. The tentativeness of his touch was just too much for John, who didn't know _how_ to get it across, how to convince this crazy, brilliant, _stupid_ man that he was his already. _You don't need a damned ugly jumper – you have me. _John didn't stop to make his usual mental remarks about how stupid that expression was and how you could never belong to someone and could never own someone because another person wasn't a thing and you couldn't be sure, you could never be sure of what they were thinking and what they were going to do in the future. Another person was free, beyond the reach of certainty. If John had taken the time to have those usual thoughts of his, he might have had a glimpse of what was going on in Sherlock's mind. But he didn't, and kissed him madly instead, pulling him down with a hand on the nape of his neck.

Sherlock was so startled he didn't push John away. He felt a tongue tracing the line of his mouth, first the bottom lip, then the upper one, before it ran between both, parting them delicately. A shiver ran down his spine and when John's tongue stroked his, it sent a jolt straight to his groin. Sherlock gasped in surprise, unintentionally allowing John to penetrate further and ravage his mouth. His eyelids fluttered and his legs wobbled under him, but John circled his waist with his free arm before he even had the time to formulate the thought _'I'm going to fall_'. It was funny how John still managed, with such a small, short body, to hold him in such a way that Sherlock felt safe. _It's because your worst fear involves him not being there with you_, a voice whispered somewhere in the recesses of his mind. _If he's here with you, holding you, it means he still wants you, it means he's not leaving and you can hold him back. _

It was strange as well, how John's presence had come to be almost a part of Sherlock. To some extent, it was true that he'd replaced the skull. He was much better at bouncing back ideas, too. It wasn't so much that Sherlock needed him to be there at all times – even when he wasn't, the detective kept talking to him. Rather, Sherlock _wanted_ the doctor to be here always. It was almost inconceivable to go back to a time when John wasn't part of his life. _It wouldn't happen, _he thought. Even if John left 221B, he'd probably keep talking to him as if he were there, always. The realization that he wasn't would hit him at some point though, and it would hurt, Sherlock knew. But he'd spent years talking to a skull. He could certainly spend the rest of his life talking to a ghost.

And yet he was hoping that time wouldn't come just yet. A time when he'd wonder every day whether John's presence in him would fade away at some point, and he'd be left with nothing but scraps of lifeless memories.

John bit his lower lip, effectively bringing him back to the present. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, in time to see the scowl on his partner's face. He couldn't help but smile. John was very 'refreshing' in his own way, he mused, kissing back to smooth away the disapproving frown. This seemed to galvanize the ex-soldier, who pressed their half-naked bodies closer together with passion, kissing Sherlock senseless.

When John finally broke the kiss, he wrapped his arms firmly around the taller man, preventing him as much from escaping as collapsing. Their chests were heaving erratically and Sherlock's swollen, parted lips were so inviting that John had to muster all the self-control he had not to crush their mouths together again. But this wasn't about him taking his pleasure – not even about him giving pleasure. John truly hoped that he'd got the message across this time. Sherlock was so dense sometimes... Or maybe he didn't understand the words or the gestures. Still, John had to try and try again, and keep trying always. He looked him in the eye.

"I love you, Sherlock."

Ethereal blue eyes widened in bafflement, unbelieving. Sherlock couldn't fathom why John would say such a thing without being subject to orgasmic release or lying limp in its afterglow.

The second thing he noticed was that he was blushing furiously and the awareness made the pink in his cheeks turn crimson. He looked away abruptly, mortified, and babbled precipitately, half-muttering:

"I thought you were leaving for good and I'd never see you again well I would've probably stalked you but I would've never touched you again and you never even liked that jumper you wore it only once when you went to your sister's because she was the one who bought it for you I thought you wouldn't care you wouldn't even notice and I..."

John kissed him again. And again. And again – drowning the babble until Sherlock shut his mouth and finally seemed ready to listen to him. It broke John's heart that Sherlock should feel so despondent and miserable.

Thinking he would never touch him again but desperate enough to plan on stalking him.

Thinking he'd have to face him one last time to give him back the things he'd forgotten in the flat, and gathering them for him, alone.

Thinking of what he could keep among the remaining items and deciding upon the one thing he believed John liked the least. Something John wouldn't miss, and whose disappearance he wouldn't even notice.

_Oh Sherlock... Do you really think so little of yourself? _

John hugged the taller man tightly, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

"I would've taken your coat," he muttered.

"What?" came the disconcerted reply.

"Or that damn scarf of yours."

"What does my scarf–"

"Or the _bloody_ purple shirt."

"John, what are you–"

"Maybe the skull? The Union Jack pillow. Your laptop, even if you never use it because you take mine."

"John..."

"You mobile phone. Your violin."

"I would've noticed that! _All_ of that!" Sherlock protested.

"Exactly."

Sherlock froze as John's point dawned on him.

"I would've taken your coat. Your scarf. Your favourite shirt. Your 'friend' the skull. The pillow you like – you must like it for some reason, or why would you bother with the design? Your laptop on which you access your website. Your mobile phone with which you can send and receive texts about cases. Your violin, which is probably the thing you care most about in this flat."

John held him tighter, pressing their bodies against each other, looking up and pinning Sherlock with his gaze.

"I would've taken everything you liked the most so you would've come back to me."

They stared at each other. Sherlock blinked. Then frowned.

"But, John, that doesn't make sense. You're the thing I care most about in the flat anyway."

This time it was John's turn to blink. He gaped, then broke into a fit of giggles.

"What? What did I say? You're the one being illogical!" Sherlock exclaimed.

John couldn't stop laughing.

"Oh God, Sherlock..." _The _thing _he__ liked the most? _That was hilarious. And just _so_ Sherlock...

Sherlock pouted and tried to break away from the embrace. John stopped giggling and frowned.

"Nope. You're not going anywhere. No running away, remember? If you don't want something, just say–"

"Then go on, pin me against the wall."

John froze.

"_What?"_

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You've been dying to since the moment I opened the door."

"How could you possibly–"

The detective clicked his tongue in impatience.

"You keep glancing at it, John."

John blushed, his cheeks and ears turning red. He felt despicable. _I really am a beast. He'll think I'm obsessed with sex – which isn't even true! It's him, just him... obsessed with him..._

"John. If you don't pin me against the wall right now, _I _will pin _you_ against it."

It took only a second for John's brain to process the information and send the signal for the proper reaction – suddenly spinning them, he slammed Sherlock's back to the wall and trapped him against it. Sherlock gave a gasp. John smiled and pressed even further, parting the long, lanky legs with his knee.

"Don't count on that," he said with a self-assured grin.

"I was rather counting on _you," _Sherlock retorted, his lips curving slightly.

John thrust his knee up, pressing against the detective's hardening groin, loving the way Sherlock arched his back and gasped against the invading touch.

"You really are in no position to act so smart," John murmured against the porcelain throat, relishing the shiver his warm breath elicited from Sherlock.

"I don't need to act," Sherlock pointed out.

Rolling his eyes at the smugness of the answer, John lowered his leg and bucked his hips against Sherlock's groin. The detective yelped in surprise

"That's..."

"No, Sherlock, that's not cheating. It's what I meant by you're in no position to be all cocky."

"Really? I thought this was _exactly_ the position to.. ah!"

John let a superior smile spread across his face. Sherlock scowled, but his blush, his panting and his parted lips didn't make it very convincing. To be fair, the position didn't allow for much authority at all. The coat was useless and he was basically naked, pinned to a wall with his legs parted, and it was absolutely impossible to hide his erection – or anything, for that matter. _Exposed_, Sherlock thought. In every sense of the term.

It was rather embarrassing, and Sherlock wasn't used to adopting the submissive attitude, especially knowing that there must be a camera somewhere in the corridor leading to his room. But he could tell John was enjoying it – a lot. And that in itself was enough to persuade Sherlock to go along, and to make him ridiculously excited, too.

This time he was the one thrusting his pelvis and grinding their two bodies together. John gasped, befuddled, but soon his face broke into a wolfish smile.

"Oh? Not enough, perhaps?"

"Yes, enough!" cried Sherlock as John's jumper grazed against his nipples and his firm, muscular thigh was pressed against his pounding penis. He meant to say _You excited is enough, you smirking is enough, _you _are enough... _but he noticed his speech becoming increasingly paratactic as John abolished all notion of personal space. Sherlock loved it. "More..."

John chuckled, kissing his cheek, his chin, his throat.

"You're not making much sense, love," he noted playfully.

"It's because you're not listening, _darling,_" Sherlock retorted in the same sweet tone.

They stared at each other for a second before breaking into a fit of giggles.

"_Darling_?"

"Because you think _love_ is better? Why not _sweetie_ or _sugar_, while we're at it?"

"Why not?" John smirked, sliding his arms behind Sherlock's neck, his hands resting on the nape while he replaced the thigh against the taller man's groin with his own throbbing erection.

Sherlock's head fell back, hitting the wall, and he moaned loudly. Biting his lip, he glared down at John.

"Because there's nothing _sweet_ about you."

The doctor smirked.

"Oh, but _you_ are very, very, _very_ sweet, Sherlock," John retorted, punctuating each word with a well-adjusted thrust that made the detective see stars.

_Stars. _Stars were positively dancing before his eyes. Soon they took the form of little men, running around, doing weird things... _Dancing?_

Sherlock suddenly wrapped his arms around his partner and pressed him closer. John stopped his moves abruptly.

"Sherlock? Are you all right?"

Worried, John wondered if he'd gone too far. What was he doing, pinning his flatmate to the wall? Sherlock had just been provocative, as always. That didn't mean he should...

"Ah!" John exclaimed, jumping as Sherlock bit his earlobe none too gently with something like disapproval, and repeated insistently, the annoyance clear in his voice:

"More!"

"Oh, you..."

Sneaking a hand up Sherlock's thigh, John grabbed the flesh of his right buttock and groped.

"... have..."

Sherlock gasped and jerked a little, but started bucking his hips furiously in order to rub their erections against each other.

"... no idea..."

John ground his own clothed torso against Sherlock's unguarded chest, so pale but already reddening under the friction, his nipples sticking out, hardening and reacting madly to the stimulation.

"... what you're asking, do you?"

"Aah!"

John shoved Sherlock back against the wall, and pulling his hair back with a firm grip, he forced him to look him in the eye. Their gazes locked above parted lips and panting chests. _More, _demanded the clear eyes, diluted with lust. _More_, echoed the darker blue ones, blackened with desire.

They froze, their faces so close their noses almost touched. The realization hit them simultaneously, making them lost and dumb. _I want more, much more. _

Sherlock realized he wanted John inside him. The idea seemed so absurd that he was completely disoriented, and confused as to why he should feel such a deep, feral craving. The thought made him harder than ever and his cheeks went ablaze.

John realized he wanted nothing less than to fuck Sherlock into the wall until he no longer knew it was there. Appalled, he stood petrified and dared not move. _I'm disgusting,_ he thought, feeling dizzy all of a sudden. Sherlock was a rape victim _and _a man to boot – and that was overly confusing too.

Embarrassed, Sherlock started fidgeting and wriggled against the wall, which only made the matter worse as their very hard penises rubbed together, making them both jolt and gasp. Sherlock frowned, determination and fear in his eyes, a peculiar combination which betrayed his unbalanced state of mind. Desperate, he resumed bumping and grinding, thrusting and thrusting again and the myriad of sensations was enough to overwhelm John and knock him out of his mortification.

He cupped Sherlock's face suddenly and thrust forward once to stop his erratic movements, forcing him to stand still against the wall, legs inordinately parted, shaking.

"Hey. No headlong rush, okay? It feels like you're charging in to avoid facing things."

Sherlock pouted in a failed attempt at contempt. His lips were trembling.

Slowly, very gently, John brushed a curl off his face and stroked his furrowed brow, smoothing the wrinkles away.

Sherlock's head was spinning under the assault of foreign sensations. That's how addictions always started: the feeling that it was all too much, and yet the outrageous hankering for _more. _The little men were still dancing madly before his eyes, spinning, spinning...

John's hand slid down his throat, caressed his torso and brushed a nipple, stroked his belly and came to rest on his penis as if it were its natural place. Sherlock was so light-headed he didn't even gasp, but his breath caught in his throat. His eyelids widened around excessively dilated pupils.

"Come here," John murmured. For some reason, the meaning of his words was clear to Sherlock, who obediently brought a tentative hand to their groins. Hot flushes increased his giddiness.

"Good. That's good," John commented in a placating voice, holding Sherlock firmly against the wall with his other hand so he wouldn't fall.

Soon, their hands were wrapped around both erections, their fingers brushing, making the pleasure so intense Sherlock wasn't sure which hand was his, and which was John's; which hardness was his, and which was John's...

"John."

"Uhm?"

"What are we doing?"

John smiled.

"Just feeling. See?" He stroked the length of Sherlock's shaft and caressed the tip as if he were merely soothing a child. Sherlock cried out.

"Why... are we doing this?"

"Because I need to know that you want me and that you're not just playing along to please me."

"That's preposterous!" Sherlock protested. Then he saw the graveness in John's eyes and sighed, closing his eyes and diving into the sensation. "You're more idiotic than I thought if you believe I don't want you when I'm this hard." He slid his fingers against John's flesh, mimicking his gesture, teasing more at the tip to stress his point. John groaned, pushing him back against the wall, bucking his hips – they gasped in unison.

"Wider," John ordered, blinded with lust.

"What?"

"_Your legs_. Spread them wider."

Sherlock's blush deepened but he complied, shyly. John parted his thighs even more, eliciting a pleading whine from his throat.

"Just wrap them around my waist."

Sherlock blinked and kept quiet, refusing to sound like an idiot and repeat: _What?_ John growled and pinched his buttocks and thighs until Sherlock was so jumpy John could easily catch both legs and wrap them round his waist, thrusting his pelvis up, slamming Sherlock into the wall again and making him scream.

"Hold onto me!"

Sherlock tightened his grip, unintentionally pressing their penises even more firmly against each other. He thought he'd pass out even before he reached his orgasm. His eyes rolled back and the dance of the little men became hectic. _Like the smileys_... he thought. _The dancing smileys forming a code and..._

"Oh..."

"Uhm?"

"Oh!"

"Sherlock? What's going on?"

"John, this is brilliant! _You_ are brilliant!"

John frowned, sensing that this wasn't quite about his essential brilliancy, and rather annoyed that Sherlock could think of anything else when they were about to climax together.

"Wait a min–"

But Sherlock looked at him with shining eyes and repeated, enthralled: "John, you're brilliant!"

And he looked like a child at Christmas and John melted, melted, in the sheer excitement and passion of that luminous gaze.

Sherlock crushed their lips together, kissing John madly, bucking against him, thrusting his hips and tightening his legs around him – John was supposed to be leading here, and yet he felt positively trapped, swallowed in Sherlock's thirst and wild fervour. He came in a matter of seconds, screaming into the kiss, not sure whose come was covering him as he felt both of their shafts bump against each other, squeezed between their two bodies, and spurt at the same time.

Sherlock was enjoying every second of it, his mind never so free and quick to process information and figure things out – this was better than cocaine, more efficient than the Woman's taunting. The pleasure John gave him was so blinding it freed him from all his chains, and Sherlock could almost _feel_ his mind expanding and blowing every obstacle away. Writhing, his body racked with orgasmic spasms, he still wouldn't let go of John and hadn't even realized they'd both collapsed and were now lying all tangled up in each other in the corridor.

John was completely knocked out and wondered if all orgasms would be that good with Sherlock – they seemed to be getting better and better, more intense every time – and as of now, he'd been taken by surprise. He noticed after a while that they had fallen to the floor, and that they'd made a mess, ejaculating all over the few clothes they were wearing. He smiled, burying his face in black curls and a black coat smelling of lavender and both their most intimate scents mingled. Sherlock held him tight, and John hugged back, wondering if the detective's great after-sex remark today would be about getting his coat to the cleaners. But...

"What day is it, John?"

"What?"

"What day is it today?"

"Friday, but..."

Sherlock suddenly jumped to his feet, with an energy of which John felt completely deprived.

"Great! Let's go away for the weekend."

John gaped, still sprawled on the floor, stunned.

"What?"

"You're repeating yourself, John. Come on, let's get ready!"

John growled and stood sorely, teetering a little. How could Sherlock recover so _fast?_ He groaned.

"But... where are we going?"

Sherlock turned to him with a gleeful grin, his coat hanging loose, his hair more ruffled than ever and his torso gleaming with come. His eyes were sparkling and excited like a child's.

"To Norfolk!"

* * *

_._

_._

_._

_**tbc**_


	15. Boating

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.

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* * *

**Chapter 15: Boating**

* * *

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"Oh, don't sulk."

"Look who's talking," John mumbled grumpily, taking their suitcase.

"I'm not sulking!" Sherlock protested.

"Yes, well, today the roles are reversed."

Sherlock sighed. They were just getting off the train in Norfolk and their client – who'd offered to be their host – had come to pick them up at the station.

"Mr. Holmes! I am so glad you could make it so fast!" Hilton Cubitt exclaimed, walking up to them briskly, his complexion more sanguine than ever. He did indeed seem overly glad.

"All thanks must go to Dr. Watson, I'm afraid," Sherlock commented, barely hiding a smirk. It made John want to hit him. Or kiss him. Or both. Irritated and blushing almost imperceptibly, he looked away.

"Um... right, well..." Hilton stammered, ill at ease.

The ride to the family farm was quiet and a bit awkward. Sherlock had sat in front next to the driver and John felt a little shunted aside. _Well, nothing new under the sun_, he thought.

"I printed all of them out. The smileys," Hilton suddenly said as the house came into view. "Here."

Rummaging in his pocket clumsily with one hand, he gave Sherlock a piece of crumpled paper covered in tiny figures who appeared to be dancing. Sherlock barely took a look at it.

"They move, don't they?"

"Excuse me?" Hilton asked as he stopped the car in front of the huge renovated farmhouse.

"The smileys. On the screen, they're GIF images and they move, don't they?"

"I think so, but..."

"You think so?" Sherlock interrupted, jumping out of the car to meet the lady of the house. _Leaving me with the suitcase_, John noted mentally, rolling his eyes.

Mrs. Cubitt was a lovely woman with fair hair and a pointed nose sprinkled with freckles.

"Hello! Mr. Murray I presume?"

"Mrs. Cubitt," Sherlock said, extending his hand to shake hers, "such a pleasure to meet you. Finally!"

She smiled back perfunctorily.

"The pleasure is all mine, although Hilton hasn't mentioned you a lot I must say..."

"Oh well, you've only been married for a year, after all! Sorry we couldn't make it to the wedding."

Then he leant in and whispered into her ear confidentially:

"We were on our honeymoon, you see."

She blinked, then blushed, and from afar John wondered what in the world Sherlock was talking to her about. He found the whole case rather preposterous after all, and if Moriarty hadn't been involved in it somehow, he was certain Sherlock wouldn't have bothered.

_On second thought, maybe he would have bothered,_ he amended. Sherlock was usually titillated by weird cases. And a man going to a private detective because his wife was receiving strange smileys and seemed terrified but wouldn't tell him anything about it, and who wouldn't intrude because he'd promised her he wouldn't pry, was quite peculiar indeed. _I am going to spend the weekend in a house full of lunatics_, John concluded with a sigh as he pulled the suitcase from the trunk.

"Welcome to Ridling Thorpe!" Hilton exclaimed, obviously very proud of his house, which looked more like a manor than a farm to John. "We've renovated it a bit," he added, and John stared.

"Yes. A bit."

"Ah, darling!"

Hilton went up to his wife and kissed her. She then turned to John.

"And you must be Mr. Stamford!"

OK, now John definitely wanted to _hit_ Sherlock. Stamford? Couldn't he have made him pose as someone a bit less... Seriously, _Mike Stamford?_ John managed a smile and shook the young woman's hand. She was very pretty, he noticed, though something about her congeniality felt a little forced.

"Hello, I'm Mike. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cubitt."

"Oh, you can call me Elsie. Shall we go in?"

John looked around but Sherlock was already in the house, not having waited for anyone to show him in. _Dear God I'm glad I don't have parents to introduce him to._ John froze. Sherlock did have parents, right? _"You can imagine the Christmas dinners."_ He shook his head, trying very hard not to imagine what "Mummy" might be like...

... John gulped. Refraining from banging his head against the wall, he followed the Cubitts in.

"Never thought of opening a bed&breakfast?" he asked, to make small talk. Hilton's clear eyes became even rounder.

"Oh no! We've always wanted to keep the rooms all to the kids and have them roam freely on the grounds."

"I see," John replied non-concomitantly. _How many kids do you want to have? _

He put the suitcase down, wondering where Sherlock had snooped off to.

"Speaking of rooms, I prepared the one above the kitchen for you, it's the largest and sunniest of all the guest rooms because it is turned to the south, but the cook comes early in the morning so I hope you don't mind," Elsie said, smiling apologetically.

John blinked.

"You have a cook?"

"She's an old friend of the family," Hilton explained. "My mother died when I was a child and my father knew nothing of household chores, so he hired a cook and a cleaning lady. I attended a boarding school, so there was no need for a baby-sitter, but–"

"Honey, I'm sure Mike will want to put his things in the room and find his husband," Elsie interrupted gently. "What are your plans for today?"

"My..." _What? _John stopped himself before he blurted out anything, but even Hilton seemed perplexed.

"Well, I was thinking of showing them around the Broads."

"Oh, so you're taking the yacht?"

John's head was starting to spin.

"I'm sorry, I think I'm going to look for Sher... um, _my husband_."

"Of course! Darling, show him to their room, won't you? I'll tell Mrs. King to prepare something light for lunch."

Once they were on the staircase, Hilton turned to John.

"So you're married?"

"No we're not," John seethed. He didn't feel insulted by the idea or anything, but didn't like the fact that Sherlock had obviously been using it just to tease. Or at best, for the case. Either way, it felt a little off-handed on Sherlock's part.

When they entered the room, Sherlock was already sprawled on the bed. Under the cover, in fact, a piteous look on his face. John stared. Hilton panicked.

"Oh dear God, are you all right?"

"Sorry, I felt somewhat feverish... Thought I'd just rest a bit before... lunch..."

He actually managed to turn green upon uttering the word, and John admired him for it. His acting skills never seemed to fail him.

"Was it the train ride? Or the car maybe? You should've told me you weren't feeling well."

Their host was fussing, clearly embarrassed and not quite knowing what to do. John repressed a sigh and put the suitcase down.

"I'll take care of him, don't worry about it."

"But..."

"I'm his doctor," he added.

"Oh I thought you were..."

"Yes, his colleague. I've been upgraded recently, though, haven't I, _sweetie_?"

Sherlock glared viciously from under his curls, but he couldn't bark anything back without sounding too healthy, so he settled for the dark look.

"All right, well, call me if you need anything."

The moment Hilton's steps died down the corridor, Sherlock jumped up on his feet and ran to the window, opening it widely.

"Have you noticed the dog?"

"The dog?" John repeated dumbly. "There is no dog."

"_Exactly._"

John sighed exasperatedly.

"No, don't do that."

"What?"

"You're doing the _look_ again!"

"Oh God, John, don't you see?"

"Nope."

"Fine. Doesn't matter."

"What do you mean it doesn't–"

"You have to go with Hilton to the Broads today."

"What? You were listen... scratch that, what about you?"

"I'm sick, John, sick! Remember?"

He turned a feverish gaze to him and whined softly. John rolled his eyes, opening their suitcase.

"Idiot. Don't make such weird noises, they'll wonder what we're doing at this time of the day."

"It's fine. We're married."

"Yes! Where did _that_ come from?"

Sherlock closed the window.

"Elementary," he replied dismissively, and John gave up. Then he stopped and stared.

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"Why do we have handcuffs in our case?"

"Well, we don't have Lestrade around, do we?"

John rolled his eyes. In the end, he went down to lunch by himself, leaving Sherlock pacing the room. He walked into the kitchen and was greeted by the cook – a plump little woman with red hair and a chubby face.

"Oh you must be one of the guests! I'm Maria, pleasure to meet you," she said as she finished dressing her salad.

"Hello, I'm Mike. Nice to meet you too. Can I be of any help?"

"Oh no, I'm paid for that, you know!"

John wondered if it was a habit of the household to begin every sentence with "oh", making them all sound rather fussy.

"So, you've been working here for a long time, I heard?"

"I was first hired by little Hilton's father when he was just a boy. I've been Ridling Thorpe's cook ever since."

"You must love the place."

"Oh I do! Don't you find it lovely? It's so quiet and soothing out here."

"I bet." _Sherlock would probably die of boredom. Thinking of Sherlock... _"Tell me, is there a dog in the house?"

Maria frowned.

"A dog? No, there's no such thing here. Why do you ask?"

"My friend is allergic and he's been feeling unwell, so I was wondering, that's all."

"Oh hello again," chimed in Mrs. Cubitt, bursting into the kitchen. "You're here already. Hungry?"

John smiled pleasantly.

"That, and Bill is impossible when he's sick." _All the time, really._ It felt very weird to refer to Sherlock by the name of the nurse who'd saved his arm, John thought.

"Will he be okay?" she inquired worriedly.

"Oh yeah, he'll be just fine. Just a bit queasy from the trip, I think. He's the sensitive kind." John gloated slightly as he freely got Sherlock back for the names and the whole marriage thing. "I'm sure he'll be fine tonight."

Mrs. Cubitt seemed a little vexed. "Will he be resting here this afternoon?"

John observed her closely.

"I'm afraid so, yes... Would that bother you? We can go to a hotel if you–"

"Oh no, not at all! I just hope nothing bad will happen while you're not around."

At those words, John froze, his blood turning cold. Something in his look must have betrayed his dread, for she added precipitately:

"I'm no doctor, you see."

"Of course. I'm sure he'll be okay."

Lunch was quiet without Sherlock, and John couldn't possibly talk much because he was supposed to be a university friend of Hilton's, and feared he'd ask the wrong questions if he was too talkative. So he let Hilton and Elsie carry most of the conversation, intervening sometimes to learn more about the bride of his 'old friend'. She was American and they'd married very soon after they met – love at first sight, they said. She loved the countryside and had told her husband she didn't mind the fields and the cows if there was at least the internet – they'd laughed and she'd moved into Ridling Thorpe after their honeymoon in France and Italy.

"And where did you go?" she inquired as Maria brought the coffees.

"Pardon?"

"On your honeymoon!"

Her eyes were sparkling at the memory of _her_ post-wedding trip, and Hilton sent John a disconcerted look.

"Afghanistan," John said with a boyish grin. She gaped, and they drank their coffees in silence.

When John entered the room to get his jacket before leaving, Sherlock was lying on his stomach on the bed, typing on John's computer.

"I didn't even know you'd taken my laptop! Why didn't you take yours?"

"How was lunch?"

"Delicious. And I didn't bring you any."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm on a case, John, I wouldn't eat anyway."

"Why do you want to stay here this afternoon?" John inquired, sitting next to him on the bed. Sherlock ignored him, focusing on the smileys dancing on the screen. "Wait, how did you–"

"Hilton Cubitt was able to print them because he could hack his wife's email address and check the Deleted messages file. I wanted to see how they moved, so I just did the same."

"And? Anything interesting?" John asked, putting his jacket on.

"Oh yes. John?"

"Mm?"

"Kiss me?"

John was already turning to leave and froze.

"What?"

"You heard me perfectly."

"I want to hear it again."

"You won't."

"Fine." John capitulated and walked back to his partner, who rolled onto his back and awaited the kiss like a cat expecting food. John chuckled, but before Sherlock could get offended and ask what was so funny again, he leant in and pressed his lips to his, softly at first, then deepening the kiss as his hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck ran up into his curls. Suddenly the door opened and Elsie gasped. John jolted.

"Oh dear I'm so sorry, I thought you'd gone already and wanted to check if everything was all right with your friend but... Sorry for interrupting." Blushing, she closed the door and they could hear her hurried steps running down the stairs. John stared at the door.

"You kissed me because you wanted her to see us. Why?"

Sherlock rolled back on the bed and resumed typing on the laptop.

"Don't worry about it, you'll see. Enjoy the boat ride."

John pursed his lips but didn't snap. He stood up, his stance military.

"Fine. Take care of yourself." Marching out decidedly, he missed Sherlock's surprised look at the expression of his concern. Sherlock watched him leave, and let his head fall onto the mattress with a thud.

"I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you," he muttered quietly at the closed door.

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

John didn't enjoy the boat ride at all. He worried about Sherlock all afternoon, and it only got worse when Sherlock stopped answering his texts.

_1.47pm_

_Everything fine?_

_1.48pm_

_Of course I'm fine, John. SH_

_2.02pm_

_What are you doing?_

_2.04pm_

_Playing with the dog. SH_

_2.04pm_

_But I thought there was no dog?_

_2.06pm_

_Not the Cubitts' dog. SH_

_2.07pm_

_So what's with the dog?_

_2.10pm_

_Sorry busy now I'll stop answering._

_2.11pm_

_What? Why? What are you doing?_

_3pm_

_Everything all right? _

_3.22pm_

_Has something happened?_

_3.55pm_

_Sherlock can you please answer_

_4.11pm_

_Sherlock?_

"Okay, we have to go back," John said suddenly.

"What?" Hilton asked, surprised. "Anything wrong?"

"I'm not sure. But I don't know."

"I thought you said your friend would be–"

"I know what I said," John retorted impatiently. "Look, I'm sorry Hil... Mr. Cubitt, but can we just go back now?"

Hilton seemed a bit lost but didn't argue.

It took them an hour to get back to the car, then another half-hour to get to the house, and by the time they arrived John's sense of dread had increased tenfold. He jumped out of the car and ran to the house, almost bumping into Mrs. Cubitt who was coming out.

"Oh! Mike, is something wron– "

"No, I'm sorry, have you seen..." John froze. Behind Elsie, Sherlock stood, beaming, looking more than fine and wearing a bright pink shirt. John goggled, completely thrown off.

"What... But..."

"You're back earlier than expected," he said with a charming smile. John was fuming.

"You..."

"We were just going to the tearoom in the village, would you like to come?" Elsie offered.

"Oh no, I'm sure you're tired after all this boating," Sherlock cut in. "Why don't you rest a bit before dinner? We'll be back shortly anyway. Elsie just told me about the strawberry cheesecake the pastry cook makes there and I was dying to try it – but I know you don't care much for sweets, _love_."

"Right," John replied coldly, not wanting to deal with the infuriating detective right now. "I'll be waiting in the room until you come back, then?" His tone was acerbic, but Sherlock skipped along and on his way out leant in to kiss him.

"Don't sulk," he whispered against his lips.

Then he was gone. John did sulk.

* * *

_xXx_

* * *

Elsie and "Bill" came back in time for dinner and Hilton joined them after he was done with a few phone calls in his study.

"I'm glad to see you're all better," he told Sherlock wholeheartedly.

"All thanks to the cheesecake," Sherlock replied with a wink in Elsie's direction, and John had to slap himself mentally to prevent himself snapping at her. Instead, he rolled his eyes. Dinner was good and Sherlock had the excuse of the nausea and then the cheesecake to declare that he was full. John noted grimly that he'd only eaten a piece of cake today, and was glad he'd made him swallow the egg and bacon the previous night.

Their hostess offered them coffee, but they declined and retired to their room early in the evening.

Once they had closed the door, John went to the bathroom and changed into his pyjamas, only to find Sherlock fully dressed when he came out.

"You're not going to bed?" he asked, confused.

"I am. But you'll like the shirt."

John blinked.

"That colour is horrendous."

"Oh, you won't have to worry about the colour."

"What– "

"Come on, stop repeating yourself and lie on the bed."

John scoffed at the imperious tone.

"I am not just going to... humpf!"

He was silenced by a pair of warm and hungry lips as a hand sneaked between his thighs, making his legs wobbly.

"Sherl– " He gasped as the detective tripped him down onto the bed and pinned him to the mattress, covering his body with his own, holding John's hands above his head on the pillow.

"What the hell are you– " _Click_. John's breath caught in his throat. This couldn't be... "Sherlock, tell me you didn't just handcuff me to the bed."

Sherlock sent him the loveliest Cheshire-cat grin John had ever seen. It didn't make him feel any better.

OK, so maybe it did.

"I could tell you that, John..." Sherlock murmured in his deep baritone voice, his mouth hovering around John's ear. "But..." He gave a little bite to the lobe, making John jump and writhe under him. "... that would be lying, wouldn't it?" He kissed and bit and suckled on his throat, adding a love-bite to the already marked flesh. John bit his lip to stifle a moan.

Sherlock caressed the skin of his neck softly, almost pensively.

"I'm sorry you've been wearing turtlenecks because of me," he whispered, sending shivers down John's spine. He was obviously referring to the purple marks left by the belt he'd strangled him with.

The doctor opened his eyes and fixed his partner's opalescent ones, frowning slightly.

"If you're going to be apologetic about this, untie me now."

Sherlock blinked, thrown off balance, and looked like a lost child for a second.

"Do you want me to untie you?" he asked.

John wanted to hug him tight but his arms were trapped, so he wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist and pressed him closer, until their noses were almost touching.

"I want you to do to me whatever it was you had planned on doing before you went into self-deprecatory mode."

Something flickered in the clear blue eyes and John could've sworn it was lust. And yet, there was still this tinge of wavering...

Thanking the gods that there could be no surveillance cameras in this room, John added:

"You know I want it."

It was all Sherlock needed to hear.

.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

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.

.

_tbc_

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	16. Massaging 2

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* * *

**Chapter 16: Massaging 2**

* * *

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.

"You know I want it."

Sherlock gulped. His throat suddenly felt very tight – and his trousers too, he noticed. This was crazy. He marvelled for a second, amazed that John could elicit such reactions from him while staying at a distance, by just saying the right words.

Or was it his voice? Sherlock frowned slightly. Either way, it was perfectly unfair.

"You're like a remote control," he blurted.

John blinked.

"Wh–"

"Oh no, don't say 'What?' again, _please_."

And to stress his point, he kissed John's pouting mouth. It was so weird, that such silly and brutish contact with another person could feel so good. From an outer perspective, Sherlock could make no sense of it – it was like kicking a ball. He'd never understood the point, and had always refused to indulge in such boorish behaviour. Seriously, what was rational about kicking a ball _for fun_? Sherlock always thought kids playing football and whatnot looked ridiculous.

Well, kissing was somewhat the same. People looked ridiculous when they kissed. What a peculiar idea it was, to press your own mouth to someone else's body! In fact, Sherlock found it more grotesque than repulsive. Sure, he never liked anyone crowding his personal space too much, but most of all _it didn't make sense_.

Except with John. With John, it _did _make sense. And yet it didn't. Sherlock couldn't formulate it, couldn't explain it. It was _as if_ it made sense, it felt like it. Like nothing else could ever make more sense, really. And yet when Sherlock looked back on it, he couldn't account for it rationally.

John gasped for air and broke the kiss, bringing Sherlock back from his musing. The detective smiled – but to John it looked like a smirk, and he scowled to hide a blush. Sherlock's smirks were ridiculously effective on him.

Of course, Sherlock, being the infuriating genius that he was, noticed the blush and his face broke into a grin.

"_Oh_."

"Shut up," John grumbled.

"Umm... nope, sorry, that's not going to happen, John. But don't worry about my smile, you won't get to see it much."

John stopped himself in time, repressing an umpteenth: "What?" Sherlock's grin widened smugly. Spontaneously, he leant in and kissed John's brow.

"Good boy," he whispered.

John jolted.

"_What? _I'm not your–"

"Well, you didn't keep it up for long," Sherlock commented as he sneaked a hand under the pillow and took out his scarf. John gaped.

"How long have you been planning this?" he asked, trying to ignore his growing erection.

Sherlock kissed his chin and nibbled his earlobe playfully. John bit back a moan.

"I placed the scarf there during lunch, if that's your question."

John groaned as Sherlock parted his legs slightly with his knee, barely brushing against his hardness.

"_You_ are such a tease," he growled.

"And you love it," Sherlock replied complacently. John scowled, but knew when he was beaten.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. The base of John's adorableness was his range of facial expressions, he thought, and mostly, his looks. Because he did have _looks,_ even if he only ever pointed out Sherlock's insufferable ones – the You're-all-idiots look, the We-both-know-what's-going-on one... But John's looks were different. They amused Sherlock, and made him want to cuddle.

Sherlock shook his head suddenly, chasing the images away. _Adorableness? Cuddle? _That was too many stupid words for one train of thought. John had always scowled, and yet Sherlock had never wanted to hug him for it. … or had he?

"Hey, genius. I'm here," John complained.

Sherlock frowned.

"Why, thank you John, I think I hadn't noti–"

"Don't play smart. Are you just going to stare at me all night?"

The challenging tone didn't please Sherlock at all – or perhaps it pleased him too much.

"I was just thinking that I'd miss your eyes tonight," he snorted, unaware of how romantic his remark could have sounded, if not for the sulky tone.

John barely had time to arch an eyebrow before everything went black as Sherlock wrapped the scarf around his head and tightened it, using it as a blindfold. The doctor gasped and wriggled under the unexpected touch. Sherlock scoffed.

"What are you acting all surprised about? Did you think I was going to use it to strangle you? _Please_. I'm trying to be creative here."

He let his hands fall to John's shoulders and roam down to the chest, playing with both nipples through the fabric until they were so hard Sherlock could actually see them. John groaned, chewing his bottom lip. Sherlock caressed the swollen mouth lightly with one finger, while his other hand came to rest around John's neck.

"Plus, I like your throat," he went on in a deep, low voice. "I don't want it too damaged just yet."

This time John was unable to stop himself and he moaned loudly. Sherlock stroked his cheek.

"Good, that's good, John. Don't hold anything back."

"We're not at home!" John protested, pulling his arms to test the solidity of the handcuffs.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to hide the fluttery feeling he got when John said "home".

"You're being especially obvious tonight, you know?"

"Right. And you love it because it boosts your ego," John muttered sullenly.

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he chuckled, giving John a peck on the cheek. The smaller man frowned.

"Will you stop treating me like a baby girl?"

"Oh, is that it? That's how _you_ treat _me_, you know."

John froze. Sherlock was right. He did give him spontaneous hugs and kisses, but that didn't mean...

"Exactly," Sherlock concluded for him as he started to unbutton the impeding pyjama shirt that was preventing him having access to John's chest. To his _skin._

"The manacles are real ones, by the way. Got them from Lestrade. There's no way you can take them off by yourself."

"Got them from Lestrade? More like stole them..."

"Don't be captious."

John giggled, incredulous.

"Captious? Oh seriously Sherl... ah!" He jumped as he felt Sherlock's mouth on his right nipple – more precisely Sherlock's teeth biting into the sensitive flesh. He tried to get away but could hardly move, being handcuffed to the bed and trapped under the detective's body.

"John, John... You're in no position to be so picky," Sherlock mimicked in a mocking voice.

"I'm not.. ah! Ungh... Will you stop doing that?" John growled, referring to Sherlock's damned talented mouth. He was horrified to hear his voice come out as a whine.

Sherlock smirked.

"But John, you don't want me to stop."

"Nnh..."

Having now unbuttoned the striped shirt completely, Sherlock fondled John's torso and lifted it so he could pull his shirt up his arms gently until it was all crumpled around the wrists, by the manacles. John arched his back, more out of excitation than obedience, and it was quite unwitting – he probably had no wit left at all. It was crazy how Sherlock's hands could throw him off balance so badly, making him feel like he'd fallen into another world, somewhere in Wonderland where Sherlock was surrounding him completely with his strokes his scent his voice...

Maybe Sherlock could do magic. Or perhaps it was enough for John to know it was _Sherlock_ touching him to become considerably aroused.

The spell was broken the moment Sherlock's hands left his torso. John groaned discontentedly at the loss. Suddenly Sherlock's tongue was running over John's mouth and his lips parted unabashedly, craving the touch – and a deeper contact. But the tongue retreated deviously, leaving John thirsting. The ex-soldier let his head fall back onto the pillow with a moan, defeated.

"Um, Sherlock?" he said, panting.

"Yes, John?"

"You'll drive me insane, y'know. I mean, positively ins... hmpff!"

He was cut off by Sherlock's tongue drilling into him and the detective wrecking havoc in his mouth. John felt the urge to grab the beloved head and pull the curls, burying his hand in dark locks of hair, and so he struggled against the handcuffs in frustration.

Having John writhing under him, John squirming around vainly to free himself from the handcuffs, John's legs still wrapped around his waist wantonly (and certainly unwittingly, for John seemed to have forgotten they were there) was more of a turn-on than Sherlock ever thought it would be. He hadn't planned this scene for himself in the first place, but for his partner: he knew John would enjoy being subdued.

John loved to be in charge; but Sherlock had noticed it excited him when he _wasn't_. And considering his girlfriends, who were nothing like the Woman, he was no doubt more used to dominating than being dominated; which was all the better, Sherlock thought. John wanted him for the sex, even if he didn't realize it. People were always so quaint about romance, even in the twenty-first century when it's been proved that it is all a matter of chemistry. Physiological and psychological factors – such changeable things, too... Sherlock wasn't only terrified that John would stop wanting him, which he knew would happen some day – and then their relationship could never be the same. He was also terrified that he would himself put John off unconsciously, by being too clumsy or by not proving to be as good as the doctor had thought. It was very reassuring to know that John had never been with a man, and could perhaps blame some things on the gender and not on Sherlock because he was Sherlock. It also meant he could give John things no girlfriend ever could – things Sherlock wished no one else ever could give to him. So deducing his kinks, those he never acted upon, was a great way to ensure he'd stay a bit longer. To get him hooked... As long as he enjoyed it, he would come back for more.

But Sherlock hadn't planned on liking it too. Not only did it arouse him a lot; it also made him wish that he could keep John handcuffed to a bedpost forever – handcuffed to _him_.

John was now thrashing and all of a sudden broke the desperate kiss, alarmed by the wetness he'd felt on his face and that certainly hadn't come from _his_ eyes.

"Sh... Sherlock..." he let out, breathless.

Sherlock's face broke into a pain-stricken smile, and he was glad John was blindfolded. He didn't realize his expression could have simply been called "loving" and that it was one John would've been very happy to see.

Leaning forward, he kissed his breathless partner's temple in a surge of affection, slipping his hand under the pillow again to take out a small bottle of lavender oil – the same John had used on him the previous night, and whose fragrance still impregnated his coat. A fragrance John recognized the moment Sherlock opened the bottle.

"You..."

"Shh. This time you're the one who has to relax," Sherlock cut in, his tone firm. Then in a small voice, he added tentatively: "I know I've upset you a lot today. Please don't be angry."

John was dumbfounded. The detective must've been seriously messing with his head, first acting all domineering and now _this_ while John was bound and couldn't hold him or kiss him to make him shut up. On second thought, though, Sherlock _had_ indeed been very upsetting today, and apology sex wasn't always a bad thing. But that wasn't exactly John's idea of having someone making up for his attitude in bed.

"Wait. You're sorry, so you've handcuffed me to a bedpost?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I never said I was sorry." He sneaked a well-oiled hand in John's trousers and fondled his crotch. John cried out in surprise.

"Sherlock! You can't.. ah! I can't..."

"Have you seen the size of this house? You know their room is on the other side."

"That's not a reason.. aah!"

John bit his lip violently to stifle back what he feared was nothing less than a wail, and his head rolled back. This was torture. Whether sweet or not, it just shouldn't be allowed.

Sherlock frowned at John's obstinacy.

"John. I already decided I'd make you scream tonight, so you might as well give up now."

John blushed furiously, feeling the air rush out of his lungs at the unexpected bluntness. Sherlock's left hand had come to rest on his chest and was now creeping up until the detective traced his upper lip and teeth, which were still biting the flesh stubbornly. The hand that was teasing around his groin suddenly plunged in and John felt Sherlock's middle finger press against his prostate through the perineal membrane. He jolted and gasped, unwillingly allowing Sherlock to slip his left hand's fingers in his mouth, thus preventing him from biting his lip again. Thrashing and moaning wildly, he tried nibbling at Sherlock's fingers so he'd stop, get them out of there, but it only seemed to please his partner even more.

John had never been fingered, but he'd never thought of fingering his girlfriends' _mouth_ before either. Sherlock's fingers were long and slender, cold against the hotness of John's oral cavity. They were playing with the inside of his cheeks, swirling around his tongue, stroking his palate or caressing the over-sensitive mucous membrane under his tongue... John let out a strangled moan. Sherlock was crowding him like no one else ever had – and he must admit that he loved it. He was appalled to realize that the awareness of being fingered, titillated in such intimate spots which never got stimulated, pinned on a bed, handcuffed, legs up and widely spread for Sherlock, was pushing him over the edge. He was going to climax and he had no idea how to let Sherlock know, for he couldn't speak and they couldn't even use eye contact. John's whole body tensed, his back arched, and as Sherlock pressed a second finger to his perineum, John's hips bucked of their own accord and he burst, screaming his pleasure. The sheer intensity of his orgasm knocked him out, increased tenfold by the fact that he couldn't move and had never been so passive in his whole life. He was reduced to an awareness trapped in a body that could only feel and be teased, completely exposed to outer stimuli. Racked with voluptuous spasms that never seemed to end, all John could still feel were Sherlock's fingers and scent penetrating him, wrecking him with waves of acute pleasure.

Then Sherlock was kissing him lustfully, his hand leaving John's mouth and grabbing his hair ferociously in such a possessive manner that it sent a jolt straight to John's groin and the poor doctor thought he'd never stop coming. Soon, Sherlock's other hand stopped tantalizing his perineum and glided up to squeeze John's shaft, pumping along rhythmically all the way through his release, until the hardness melted completely and softened in his palm.

John knew he'd blacked out when the white flashes stopped and he could no longer remember who he was or where he was – but he knew Sherlock was there, holding him, rocking their two bodies slightly, babbling something in his ear. He could feel Sherlock's curls on his face, the fabric and buttons of his shirt pressed against his own chest, his scent more overwhelming even than the lavender. John drowned – drowned in the curls, the fabric and the scent, drowned in the depth of this shattering ecstasy of _Sherlock_. It was ardent, all-consuming – it was everything, absolutely _everything. _Having lost the last shreds of his sanity and reason, he pressed himself closer to the inestimable chest, and gabbled.

"Iloveyousomuch-pleaseneverleaveme-sherlocksherlocksherlock..."

Sherlock caught his name but wondered if he'd heard correctly. John's words were echoing his own thoughts too perfectly to be true... weren't they?

The detective was quite confused and hadn't planned on coming himself – but John writhing under him, John thrashing against the handcuffs, John screaming as he came all over their groin was all too arousing for Sherlock, and he reached his climax just after his partner.

And so he was frustrated and half-sulking, because it hadn't been intended at all, but at the same time he felt light-headed and _God _the sight of John was worth it a thousand times. Sherlock thought there was nothing he wouldn't do to see John like this and to be the cause of it, to make John surrender and scream, to hear John's voice babble his name and beg him not to leave... because he'd said it, hadn't he? ...Hadn't he?

They stayed like this for a moment – and maybe more than a moment, John could no longer tell and Sherlock couldn't care less.

"Sherlock... Sherlock... Sherlock!"

Sherlock snapped back to reality when he realized John was actually talking to him and not just chanting his name. Bringing a hand to John's sweaty brow, Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, a smile playing on his lips.

"Yes, John?"

"Won't you take off the handcuffs now?"

Sherlock smirked and tickled the skin behind John's ear.

"No."

"Good, then... Wait, what?"

Sherlock kissed the forehead wrinkled in puzzlement, and tried to back off – but John held him tightly with his legs, his thighs pressing around Sherlock's waist. _Lost nothing of the soldier muscles_, Sherlock mused.

"No, no, no, where do you think you're going? Are you just going to leave me like this?"

"As tempting as it may sound... no, John. I'm not done with you."

John blushed and slackened his grip in surprise. Sherlock took the opportunity to sneak out of bed and watch his partner.

"What are you doing?" John inquired, his tone more annoyed than worried, his moves sluggish. He was obviously still feeling very dizzy, and his body lay limp on the sheets.

"Admiring the view," Sherlock replied smugly. He observed mortification dawn on John's face and chuckled.

"You...! Oh, whatever..." John grumbled, too utterly relaxed to complain about anything. Sherlock smiled and walked up to him, his hands circling John's waist and suddenly pulling his pants down. John started.

"What are you doing?"

"You're not going to sleep in these. They're wet."

John's blush turned crimson and he growled, turning his head to the side and burying his face in the pillow. Sherlock grinned.

"Moreover, I want you naked. Are you cold?"

"No," John answered grumpily.

"Good."

"But I still don't see why you won't release me now," he added, mumbling.

Sherlock sat on the bed by his side and let his hand rest on John's heaving abdomen. "I'll release you eventually."

"Very reassuring."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, smiling. Funny that relaxed John meant sulking John. It was cute, somehow. _Cute_?

"John, I think you've done something terrible to my vocabulary."

"What?"

"Never mind."

Oiling both of his hands this time, Sherlock started stroking John's leg from the top of the thigh to the ankle. John jumped imperceptibly, but relaxed instantly as Sherlock nuzzled his calf.

Sherlock palpated the flesh a bit and once he'd identified the point he was looking for, pressed on the medial side of John's knee joint between the tendons. His other hand lowered to fondle the calf and stopped a few inches above the ankle, on the inside of the leg, where he pressed another point.

"Kidney meridian," he replied to John's silent question.

"You know shiatsu?" John asked, astonished.

"Just a bit. Three years ago there was a series of murders in which the criminal performed shiatsu on his victims before slicing them to pieces. I had to learn in order to identify the patterns."

John couldn't help but shiver.

"Great. So you're going to slice me to pieces?"

Sherlock smirked.

"Thought I'd already done that."

John scoffed and mumbled something which sounded like "Don't be so smug about it."

Sherlock went on to the other leg and repeated the gesture, pleased to have John as docile as a rag doll, and enjoying the utmost relaxation radiating from his face – or what he could see of it.

"Can't you at least remove the scarf?"

"No. You'd open your eyes to look at me."

"Oh yeah, now I see. That's such a big problem."

"Shh. You're such a chatterbox in bed."

John's mouth fell in outrage.

"I am _not_!" he stammered. Sherlock smiled and kissed his way up to his lover's belly. He located the conception vessel meridian in the middle of John's abdomen, and from there could find all the points intersecting the chong mai meridian.

"What points are you pressing?" John wondered.

"Well, I'm going to vary the kidney meridian and the meridian of the three heaters – used in erotic massage, I believe; it supposedly increases sexual energy and the potency of men."

John gulped.

"Wait, you want to..."

"I'm not good at massages," Sherlock blurted. "I can't give you one like you did for me yesterday. But because of this case I know the basics of shiatsu and reflexology. Quite frankly, I'm not convinced, and I've never even practised except on corpses, but I've been thinking about it and I do believe that I can use this to relax your body in depth," he said somewhat hurriedly.

John smirked.

"Who's a chatterbox?"

Sherlock smirked back. As he kept pressing the points he'd mentioned, he lowered his head to John's crotch and without warning, licked his shaft. John jumped, startled.

"Sherlock!" he cried in protest.

"I wouldn't start screaming now if I were you, John, or you won't have any voice left when I'm done with you."

John moaned and couldn't believe Sherlock was succeeding in exciting him all over again even though he was still dizzy from his last release. As Sherlock pressed a point on his side, he felt a wave of electricity run down his spine and hissed. Sherlock kissed the tip of his shaft, and John was mortified to feel his hips bucking to increase the contact between his slowly but surely hardening member and Sherlock's mouth.

"Please..."

"Mm?"

"Don't tease..."

Sherlock kissed the inside of his thigh and retorted:

"I won't. All I will do is make you hard again, bring you to your climax, then arouse you and make you come again, and again, and again..." He kissed John's balls, and his hair tickled the over-sensitive flesh of his crotch.

"Sherlock!"

"Every time, I will make you relax some more, until you fall to sleep naturally."

"I could've done that just now!" John protested in a moan.

"No," Sherlock murmured, his face suddenly close to John's ear, his tongue on his throat as his fingers pressed points on his neck and shoulders expertly. "You would've slept for an hour or so, then you would've sensed I was having a nightmare, and you would've held me or soothed me like you always do."

John's breath caught in his throat; how could Sherlock possibly know?

"You would've felt guilty and powerless, and even when you had eventually fallen back to sleep, it wouldn't have been a refreshing slumber."

"Sherlock..."

The detective kissed him softly to silence, sneaking a hand up his arm and lacing his fingers with his, relishing the _clink_ the handcuffs made as the smaller man struggled against them.

"You haven't had a good night's sleep in days," Sherlock murmured, and John heard the implied: _because of me_. "And I know you. You won't just let go. You'll keep worrying about me and you'll be attentive to any sound, any move I make until exhaustion takes its toll on you and you fall back into a deeper slumber for an hour or two."

Sherlock's fingers searched for the right points on John's open palm and slowly pressed them, one by one. _To treat anxiety_, Sherlock's brain flashed before his eyes, _the pituitary gland, the brain, the stomach... _

"That's why you don't hear me when I get up in the morning." … _the adrenal glands, the descending colon, the ileocaecal valve... _"You've been paying attention to me all night long," he concluded. … _temples, solar plexus, liver. _

"Sherlock, I–"

"Shh."

Both of his hands were now on John's, applying pressure to specific points Sherlock deemed relevant – that one on the side in the continuity of the little finger, the shoulder... All the while, Sherlock was nuzzling up against John's neck, kissing his throat, biting his earlobe. It was all so sweet yet so firm and invasive John felt completely lost and at the entire mercy of his friend. In this position, Sherlock could've done anything to him – anything at all to make him scream – and here he was animating his body, sending sparks and shivers, restoring energy and dispelling the tensions... and teasing. Because he was teasing, of course. The only-consulting-detective-in-the-world couldn't do even shiatsu like everybody else – no, he had to use oil and his tongue and that knee pressing rhythmically against John's displayed genitals.

Suddenly Sherlock kissed him wildly and snapped John back from his dizziness. Not seeing anything really wasn't an advantage – but it was ridiculously arousing.

"I'm sorry, John, but we don't have all night – you must have some time to sleep, it's the whole point after all."

Dazed from the kiss, John barely had time to register what had just been said before Sherlock's mouth fell to his left nipple and his hand sneaked down and grabbed his balls, pulling none too gently.

John cried out in surprise and pain, but soon his cry was drowned in moans and pants. Sherlock's massage was driving him senseless, sending waves of savage pleasure, making him thrash and shriek uncontrollably.

"Pl... please..Sh... SHERLOCK!"

He came a second time screaming his partner's name, his body convulsing.

"You must've used something," he babbled, "put something in my drink or–"

Sherlock silenced him with his tongue and a bite to keep him quiet.

"You can scream all you want, John," he said in an unwittingly sultry voice, "but do. Not. Talk. Understood?" He sneaked a finger between John's leg to tickle his perineum, and John arched his back to the touch, screaming:

"UNDERSTOOD! Please..."

John couldn't believe he'd come twice and his third orgasm was already bubbling in his lower parts.

"Sherlock, you're gonna kill me! You... Aah!"

Sherlock had pulled him up, the handcuffs clicking furiously up against the bedpost, and his fingers drilling some very sensitive points in John's back.

"Ah! Sh... Sherlock!"

"The crook of the back... an overly sensitive zone used in erotic massage, was it?"

"Please... I can't... No more..."

"Oh come on John, a big boy like you," Sherlock teased, locating the tensed or twitching spots and penetrating them gradually but forcefully with his fingertips.

"I'm... too old for that aah!"

"Thataah? Bit late for neologisms, don't you think?"

John was too far gone to even register the affectionately mocking tone.

Sherlock kept his promise and made him come again. And again. And again, until John begged for mercy – at which point he retorted: "If you're still begging, it means you've got some energy left." And he made him hard again, weaving fire in zones John had never even thought of. Sherlock played with his hands, his wrists, saying something about the reflex point of the prostate being there and stimulating it; he turned his nipples into ecstasy buttons, harassing them until a mere brush was enough to send John to the seventh heaven; finally, he aroused him again simply by groping his buttocks and thighs, applying pressure to certain spots that made John jump and shiver and gasp, never touching his shaft but blowing on it teasingly until it was rock hard and dripping.

"All right. John? You're probably going to black out after this one. Please don't worry. I'm here," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

John was such a wreck he could only groan back incoherently, until he felt his lover's mouth on his throbbing erection. He jolted with a gasp.

"Sher... if you've drugged me I'm gonna..."

Sherlock frowned and slid down John's shaft with a pop – John moaned and thought he'd come there and then, but Sherlock pinched the tip of his penis, preventing any possible release. John cried in indignation:

"You're kid..kidding me!"

Sherlock's eyes turned to slits.

"I didn't drug you, John."

"How many times do you think you've made me come?"

"I didn't drug you."

"My old body can't take this, this is just–"

"I DIDN'T DRUG YOU!"

"FINE! Just let me come! Please, please, _please,_ Sherlock..."

Sherlock was shocked to see that John was actually sobbing from exhaustion and an overdose of pleasure.

"Please... I'll be good... I'll stop talking... Just please, _please... _Sherlock..."

Sherlock froze, panting slightly, for he himself had come several times with John, just from seeing him reach his climax and cry out his name over and over again. Never letting go of the tip of John's hardness, he started licking the vibrating length.

"Say my name." _Lick_.

"Sherlock..." John moaned.

Sherlock shivered. This wasn't necessary to bring John over the edge one last time, but he couldn't help it – John's voice was such a turn on for him, he was sure he could come just from hearing it.

"Again." _Lick. _

"Sherlock..."

"Again!" _Suckling_.

"AAH! Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock..." This time John had completely lost it and was surrendering wholly. Sherlock could hear it in his voice, feel it in his flesh against his palms, sense it in the tension building and reaching its apex, his whole body stiffening under Sherlock's touch and reacting exactly like Sherlock wanted it to react. This time was the one. Sherlock knew that after this, John would sleep like he'd never slept in his life. Releasing the tip of his penis, he mouthed the entire organ and sucked, bobbing up and down the shaft until John exploded in his mouth, spurting and filling him, almost choking him. Sherlock's eyes filled with tears and he too was hit by his orgasm, but he didn't move back and stayed until the very end, pumping, draining John of his last shreds of energy. Draining him of his tension, of his worry and of his fears, leaving only a sense of contentment and of utmost relaxation. Exhausted, Sherlock fell back onto the mattress next to the trembling body of his partner, swallowing the last of John's come, engraving into his mind its salty bitterness.

Refusing to black out and fall into slumber just yet, he took the key that lay on the bedside table and removed the manacles from John's swollen wrists. His arms were limp and Sherlock smiled, relieved that he'd been right – John was already sleeping deeply. Delicately, he unwrapped the scarf as well and threw it to the side. John's face was red and glistening with sweat, but so relaxed he looked at least ten years younger. Sherlock's eyes widened and he stared, unable to tear his gaze away from his friend. Finally, he shook his head and stood up, went to the bathroom and came back with two towels – a wet one and a dry one.

With the latter he gently mopped his lover's face, then his throat, his arms and torso. He switched to the wet towel for the lower half, and cleaned him so he wouldn't wake up in stickiness. He removed the sheets that were dripping with come and replaced them with the ones he'd spotted earlier in the afternoon in the wardrobe, and had prepared to this effect. Finally, he wrapped John up in a blanket and fell to his side, worn out and dizzy from the exercise his body wasn't used to. He didn't even think of cleaning himself, nor of at least changing to his pyjamas. Instead, he snuggled up to John and buried his face in the blanket he'd wrapped him in, his ear pressed against his chest, looking for something.

When he heard the first beat, his face broke into a childlike smile. Closing his eyes, he allowed sleep to come and get him, lulled and sheltered by the regular beating of John's heart.

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**xXx**

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_tbc_


	17. Trembling

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**Chapter 17: Trembling**

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When John woke up in the morning, he couldn't remember having ever slept so deeply and so refreshingly in his entire life. The soft morning sun rays were piercing through the windowpane, as the curtains hadn't been pulled, and filled the large, white room with a golden honey light. John felt surrounded by warmth and smoothness, and thought for a second that he was back in childhood, lulled with a sense of joyful trust and safety. Then he remembered that his childhood hadn't exactly been so ingenuous, and that he hadn't felt so right and _home_ since he'd met...

His eyes snapped open. _Sherlock_. The warmth was emanating from his curled up body pressed against John, only separated by the blanket the doctor was wrapped in. _And when did that happen?_ From his viewpoint, John could only see the mop of black hair, and the tip of Sherlock's nose pointing out from under it, brushing against John's hand as the detective squirmed a little, moaning softly. _A nightmare_.

It all came back to John at once. His cheeks turned crimson and he groaned, burying his head back into the pillow. He seriously had no idea how he could face his friend ever again. The previous night only appeared to him in a blur – but he knew he'd turned into a babbling, begging mess and had never acted so shamelessly. He could still hear his own wanton, pleading voice crying out and chanting Sherlock's name. _Sherlock. _John was positively amazed by his flatmate's unexpected skills. But again, it was Sherlock : the devious bastard was probably gifted in everything he did. _Except socializing_, John amended, a smile spreading on his face as he caressed the smooth skin of his lover's cheek, invisible under the abounding black curls. Sherlock shivered and almost recoiled. John snuggled up closer and slipped a hand behind his head, cupping the nape of his neck, delicately massaging the base of his scalp while his thumb stroked his ear and played with the earlobe in a tender, soothing way.

He could now see partly the face of his infuriating partner, and felt the urge to smother him with kisses until he woke up in indignation. _He won't like this_, John thought. But the sleeping face was so peaceful and so damn appealing that he couldn't stop himself. _Just one kiss. _Carefully avoiding the lips for fear of wanting more, John leant in and kissed Sherlock's nose, which wrinkled comically under the touch. Chuckling quietly, John repeated the gesture, this time eliciting an adorable frown from his lover, and he was doomed. It was too late. Now he wanted to see the pout and the scowl, to hear the groan and the whine, and to stifle the protest that was sure to come under a shower of kisses.

John assailed the left temple first, loving the awaited pout; he continued on to the right cheekbone, then before he could stop himself he kissed the wing of the wrinkled nose as well. The tempting scowl came (and God, was there anyone else on the surface of the earth who could manage to be _tempting_ with a scowl?), then the groan when John kissed the twitching eyebrow, and the whine when he teased the corner of the mouth. Sherlock grumbled something incomprehensible and was about to roll onto his other side – John had to act fast. And so he suddenly swooped down on the sleuth as he was turning and smothered his deliciously disgruntled face with relentless kisses. Sherlock stirred, then groggily shook his head in annoyance, and finally opened half-sleepy eyes already filled with daggers. Their pupils locked and John froze, his own face automatically lighting up as he engraved the image of a drowsy, dishevelled, pouting Sherlock in bed. The doctor's lips curved up and his fond gaze sparkled with jest and mirth.

"Hello, sunshine," he said with a grin before kissing the waking man gently on the mouth. Sherlock's lips parted in surprise and John swallowed the expected protest, his hand running up the scalp swiftly, relishing the curls and the beloved head, teasing the ear. They parted and stared at each other – John, beguiled by the very light blush spreading on the pale cheekbones, Sherlock, noticing his friend's reaction, and already giving the hint of a smirk.

"Don't be so ironic first thing in the morning, John."

"I wasn't being ir–"

"Then that's even worse. _Sunshine_?"

Sherlock's mumble and his lingering scowl were just too much and John couldn't resist. Before he knew it, he found himself kissing the irresistible moue over and over again, until Sherlock got tired of it and sneaked a devious hand between his naked partner's legs. John yelped and fell onto the detective, interrupted in his onslaught. When Sherlock's hand fondled his groin, he moaned and buried his face in the crook of his now clearly smirking lover's neck.

"Sherl...nngh!"

"Mm? You're not being very articulate, John."

"Shut up, you... ah!"

John shut his eyes and clenched his teeth with determination. He'd humiliated himself enough the previous night, and absolutely refused to make any more of those lewd noises. Sherlock kissed his throat and pinched it slightly with his teeth, nibbling his way down from behind the ear.

"But I like the noises you make," he murmured, his tone titillating.

John suddenly moved back and Sherlock was so puzzled he let go of him, turning a disoriented and inquisitive look towards him. John saw the panic and the fear in the fair irises, and pressed himself closer to his friend in an attempt to assuage him.

John remained silent for a few seconds, groping for words, not sure where to begin. Finally, he said:

"Thank you. I can't remember ever sleeping so well. You really are amazing."

Sherlock's pupils were no longer comatose, and they sharpened as he studied John closely, observing every sign.

"But?" he asked, trying to prevent worry and most of all this detestable sense of insecurity from filling his voice.

John wrapped his arms around him, and Sherlock squirmed.

"Wait, you're clean but I'm still..."

"Shh. Just listen to me. Please."

Sherlock froze, suddenly terrified that he'd done something irreparable. His face was blank, but he thought he felt his heart miss a beat. John took a deep breath.

"Please promise me you'll never do it again."

Sherlock's pupils blurred, and he no longer bothered to hide the fear.

"What did I do wrong?" he asked precipitately.

"Hey, calm down. You did nothing wrong."

"But then why..." He frowned. "You loved it. I know you did."

John felt his face burn up and averted his gaze.

"That's not the issue here."

"Then what's the issue?" Sherlock insisted, irritation now piercing in his troubled tone.

John laced his fingers with his, trying to convey that this did not jeopardize what they had – that no matter what, he could never lead a life without him in it.

"You didn't let me do anything for you," he murmured. Sherlock's lips quivered, but his eyebrow twitched in annoyance.

"I came almost as many times as you did, you know," he admitted reluctantly.

"That's not... wait, you did?" John blushed, a silly grin spreading on his face. Sherlock's gaze turned cold.

"You didn't notice? I must not have been so bad, then..."

"Sherlock–"

"Tell me. Just tell me where I went wrong."

"You handcuffed me."

"And you loved it."

John swallowed his pride, and nodded firmly, the military courage back in his eyes.

"I did. But I couldn't touch you."

"Brilliant deduction, John–"

"No, listen. Just listen to me, for once."

John missed the flash of hurt in Sherlock's eyes at the words and went on.

"I couldn't touch you, couldn't see you – I was completely powerless. And you're right. It did excite me – a lot." He chuckled a little nervously. "Denying it now would be absurd. But Sherlock... still, I can't approve of it. Do you realize the meaning of what you did?"

Sherlock felt a shiver run down his spine and the bitterness of panic fill his throat, threatening to choke him. His gaze wavered. Seeing that he was misunderstanding his words – _again_ – John quickly answered his own question.

"You thought that the best thing for me was to spend time _away from you_."

Sherlock blinked, twice, and still did not understand. He remained quiet, for fear of not saying the right words, not asking the right questions – for fear of being himself, and as always, messing up the whole situation. He really wasn't very delicate about these things.

But his puzzled look betrayed him nonetheless, so John went on, explaining.

"Not seeing you, not being able to touch you, to hold you... Don't you see? Then you wore me down until I passed out so I would spend at least a few hours relaxing by _not thinking about you_..."

"But John, I–"

"You were right by my side, I know. But I can't concur with this way of thinking. Please promise me you won't do it again."

"What, John?" Sherlock finally snapped. "The manacles? The blindfold? The massage? The lavender oil, the shiatsu, the repeated and forced ejaculations, the biting, the kissing, the touch..."

"Hey, hey, hey... Sherlock! Look at me. Here."

John cupped the trembling face lost in anger and confusion, and looked his partner in the eye.

"I. Love. You. I don't know how to say it, in what language you'd understand the concept – I want you to do all those things to me."

Sherlock tried to get away, to escape the unwavering, assured gaze of his friend and lover. It really frightened him. What if he could never answer the confession? He just couldn't get it. The "love" he knew was one that led desperate people to murder, that was passionate and destructive and dangerous. Or something warm and fuzzy and mollifying that made you weak and dumb. But what Sherlock had with John wasn't the love he encountered in cases, nor the one he could research on Google – there were no clues, no bearings whatsoever. It was new and exciting. It was new, and terrifying.

Suddenly Sherlock realized John had stopped talking and was observing him. He blinked, then blushed, and babbled an excuse for having disconnected from reality. Unwittingly pressing John's hand, he tried to find the words, frowning almost comically, like a child concentrating on an unsolvable problem. When he tried to take the situation in hand, it obviously didn't work, if John wasn't pleased with the result...

"I am pleased."

Sherlock gaped. John smiled and kissed him.

"You were being obvious."

"I had to use the handcuffs," Sherlock abruptly said, "or you wouldn't have listened. Or is it that you can't trust me? You think I'm still too _fragile_ to handle this and you..."

"No," John cut in, his tone categoric. He turned crimson. "Obviously you handled it very well." Then, in a smaller voice: "But you didn't need the handcuffs..."

Sherlock's eyes widened, his pupils dilating. The unspoken words sent a jolt straight to his groin and he groaned. Taking John by the elbow, he pressed him closer and kissed his brow, then his temple, his ear, the sweet spot behind it, his neck and collarbone, hands roaming and groping. John jolted and moaned, fidgeting.

"Sherlock... I am trying to have a proper conversation here!"

"Then stop being so alluring," the detective retorted grumpily. But he sounded more confident now. "I can't promise anything." He bit the earlobe and licked the sensitive skin behind it before John could protest. "You liked it. And you needed the undisturbed sleep."

"But..."

Sherlock silenced him with one of his drilling kisses that left John panting and squirming for more. He suddenly realized that Sherlock was still clothed, and felt utterly vulnerable and exposed, naked in his arms. He could not even retaliate against his lover's attacks. _Well, nothing new under the sun_.

"I got it. It isn't the means you didn't like, but the intention behind it. Still, I can't promise anything. Sometimes you'll need to 'get some air', as you put it."

His deep voice made John shiver and his pelvis bucked of its own accord, pressing his crotch to the other man's thigh. Sherlock chuckled in his hair, kissing the top of his head and nuzzling as he caressed his back and buttocks, eliciting very effective moans from the ex-soldier. Sherlock leant in until his mouth was but an inch away from his friend's ear and whispered:

"John. Won't you let me service you in those times?"

This was the last straw and Sherlock knew it – he smirked as John moaned loudly, arching his back when the sleuth's hand came back upon his genitals, teasing and stroking.

"Please Sherl.. aah! Not ag..."

Sherlock kissed his way down the well-defined torso to the dark nipples that were already sticking out, his hand never ceasing its ministrations on John's groin.

"You can't go down to breakfast like this," he teased.

"But I... ah! … can take care of it myself!"

John struggled weakly, more perfunctorily than really trying.

He lowered himself until he could snuggle up to Sherlock's chest and sneaked a hand into his trousers, biting a nipple through the fabric and grabbing his shaft. Sherlock started, then froze completely. This snapped John out of his voluptuous confusion and he pulled his hand back when he saw his partner was trembling.

"I'm sor..."

But he was interrupted by Sherlock's hand catching his and bringing it back to his soft member. Shutting his eyes tightly in an attempt to stop the trembling, Sherlock let out in a whisper:

"It's fine. Please do whatever you want."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, outraged and horrified by his expression and his words.

"I said it's fine!"

"No, it is _not_!"

They glared at each other heatedly, their faces mere inches apart – hands struggling against each other, one trying to pull away, and the other pulling it back.

"Sherlock, stop this! Do you seriously think I could stop wanting you if you refused me?"

"Yes!"

The word had slipped out before Sherlock even realized it, and when he did it was too late. He paled, and his grip on John's hand slackened enough for the doctor to pull it out and wrap his arms around the long, petrified body, embracing it tightly.

"You're an idiot, Sherlock, such an idiot..."

"Thank you," Sherlock mumbled back, and John chuckled into his curls.

"Kiss me, you big idiot."

Sherlock grumbled sullenly, but complied, biting the doctor's bottom lip, making him gasp – teasing the inside of his mouth, crowding him until he was wiggling helplessly under him.

"You asked for it," Sherlock pointed out in a mumble, and he was so endearing John kissed him again, and again, and again, wondering how he could ever stop wanting the maddening man. _If you're uncomfortable with me touching you, then... _

"Sherlock?"

"Um?"

"Please... touch me?"

A genuine smile graced the detective's lips, his face filling with a peculiar mix of candid innocence and domineering playfulness. John hummed softly as he was kissed again, enjoying the waves of pleasure washing over him, revelling in how bonded he felt to the brilliant, insufferable man in his arms. He still felt somewhat awkward about being so submissive, but if that was what it took to reaffirm his partner's self-confidence, John would commit to it without the trace of a doubt. He trusted Sherlock with his life. There was no reason he should not trust him with his body. _Well, actually_... He started giggling like an idiot, remembering the jam and the belt and the perverted shiatsu – Sherlock was experimenting, and there was no telling what he would do next.

"What are you giggling about?" Sherlock asked, sounding offended – and his tone made John laugh even more.

"It's just that.. aah! Ha ha... you're such.. ah... a susceptible twat..."

Frowning, Sherlock intensified his caresses on his lover's most intimate parts, enjoying the way he could gradually deprive him of his sense and of his speech.

"You... really are... _you_ daydream when we... but if I... nnh... Sherlock!" What was intended as a reproach came out as a plea, and John felt his blush deepen. But the fire burning in his cheeks got even worse when the detective leant in and murmured in his ear, his voice low and vibrant, yet childlike in its tentativeness:

"John... please touch me too."

John groaned and pulled Sherlock closer to him, inhaling his exhilarating scent, pressing their torsos closely. He slipped his hand back into the trousers, slowly, observing his friend's reactions attentively. Sherlock blushed, shut his eyes, and while his devious fingers were sending John to the seventh heaven, he snuggled up to him like a lost, frightened child... or so John thought, until he felt the bite on the side of his throat.

He smiled fondly. He had noticed already that Sherlock was very... mouthy, so to speak. He did incredible things with his lips, tongue and teeth, and there was something feral and _raw_ in his way of tasting. John was getting used to the dear mouth, and could now tell the difference between the submit-to-me-and-be-a-good-boy bites and the I'm-scared-please-hold-me ones. OK, so maybe Sherlock wouldn't have formulated it that way, but John took it for what it was: a way to reassure himself, and to get a hold on something – like a frightened cat reacting to a hug with teeth and claws. But Sherlock could have got away, and he didn't. John kissed his temple and his brow, kissed the curls and the reddened ear, as his hand began regular strokes on his lover's shaft, enjoying how it hardened to the touch.

So they stroked and fondled, kissed and bit in a concert of quiet gasps and stifled moans, until they felt they were going to burst and, pressing their faces even closer, drank their name on each other's lips, orgasm hitting them like a Flood of blinding white light.

When they finally came to, John chuckled and remarked:

"You turn me into a teenager all over again."

Sherlock furrowed his brow adorably, and wondered what kind of teenager John could have possibly been.

.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

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_tbc_


	18. Lying 1

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* * *

**Chapter 18: Lying (1)**

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They got up late that morning, and when they went down for breakfast, their hosts were already finishing their coffee under the pergola.

"Oh hello there!" exclaimed Mrs. Cubitt. "Have you slept well?" Her cheeks were tinged pink when she asked, and John glared at Sherlock. _See? They heard us!_

But Sherlock paid no heed to the doctor's scowl and gave Elsie his sweetest smile – the one John now saw as incredibly playful, and ridiculously arousing. _This is stupid. It's not even a real smile. _It made him want to kiss him senseless on the spot, to wipe the damned grin off his face.

"Very well, thank you. Today is such a nice day, don't you think?"

John stared in wonder at Sherlock doing _small talk_ with their hosts – seriously, even talking about the weather? He shook his head, a smile spreading across his face, and sat as well, next to Sherlock.

"It is, isn't it?" Hilton commented. "Precisely, I was going on a ride with a friend. Would you like to join us? I have enough horses for all of us, and I'm sure he would be delighted to meet you!"

He winked, not so discreetly, and John had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Sherlock on the other hand seemed suddenly rather nervous – to the doctor, at least. He wondered if that was part of the act, but wasn't so sure... In any case, John was pretty enthusiastic and nodded.

"That's very kind of you. I'd love to–"

"I'm afraid that's not going to be possible," Sherlock cut in, perhaps a little too stiffly. John tilted his head to the side inquisitively. What in the world did the detective have in mind for today?

"Oh. I see," Hilton replied, stuttering a bit – obviously surprised by the categoric tone with which Sherlock declined the invitation. John frowned.

"Why not?"

Sherlock squirmed, then scoffed – and the contrast in attitude was just so comical John had a hard time not to laugh.

"I don't feel very at ease riding something alive that could do anything it wants while I'm on its back," he declared. Hilton blinked and John stared.

"You're scared of horses?" he said in disbelief, more as a statement than a question.

Sherlock glowered at him.

"Don't be ridiculous. I just don't appreciate riding them much."

But it was obvious for all that he was, indeed, rather frightened at the thought. Surely Sherlock himself must have realized he wasn't very convincing in his defence...

"Right," John said, a smirk playing on his lips. Sherlock was such a good actor. They were all falling for it. He turned to Hilton: "Sorry, mate. But I'd rather stay with Bill this time."

"Well, if you're rather...uneasy with horses, why don't we go for a car ride through the countryside?" Elsie offered amiably.

"Oh, that would be lovely!" Sherlock exclaimed, and it was so out of character it made John jump in surprise. Sherlock turned to him, frowning slightly.

"What are you being so jumpy about, dear?"

John glared. "What are you saying, _darling_? I was just startled by your enthusiasm, considering how sick a simple train ride made you."

He brought his hand to his partner's face and stroked his cheek gently, gloating inside.

"I'm just worrying about you. You know how sensitive you can be..."

Sherlock's eyes sent him daggers and turned to slits, but he couldn't retort – played at his own game. However he refused to give up just yet.

"Oh, _sweetheart_, that's so considerate of you. But I assure you, I'll be just fine. Elsie's driving is so gentle, I was perfectly fine yesterday when we went to the tea shop."

They stared venomously at each other, Sherlock jubilant that he'd succeeded in lighting a gleam of jealousy in John's darkened pupils. _Darkened? Ooh... interesting. _He took note of the fact, hiding a smirk, and went on:

"Look, you should go with Hilton. I know how much you miss riding." John's eyes widened, but Sherlock ignored it and turned to Elsie instead with doe eyes. "He had a pony as a child, you see – it was such a tragedy when it passed away from intestinal occlusion. But Mike always loved riding, and since we live in London because of my work, it's hard to own a horse..."

"Aww, you poor thing," Elsie said, sympathising. "Then you should really go. I can take care of your husband for another day, so don't worry."

John scowled at Sherlock, then forced a smile towards Elsie. "It's very kind of you, but I'd love to get to know you some more too. I don't know when we'll have time to come by again. Do you mind if I come on the ride with you?"

"Of course not! Shall we meet down here in an hour then? Will that be enough for you to have breakfast and to get prepared?" she eyed Sherlock's skin tight lilac shirt and John almost hit his head on the table. _You think we're going to take hours to get prepared just because we're a "gay married couple"? Please..._

"An hour and a half, perhaps? If you don't mind."

John turned round eyes to Sherlock, astounded that he'd just uttered such words. He shook his head. _Oh, whatever._

"Good. Until then!"

She sent them a friendly smile and went back into the house. Once her steps had subsided, Hilton leant towards Sherlock with an air of secrecy, and whispered.

"That was very clever of you, saying you feared horses! I'm sorry I didn't think, I was so caught up in the 'old uni buddy' act that I forgot for a moment why you came... Naturally, it is much better if you can spend the day with Elsie. Have you made any progress at all?"

Sherlock smiled contentedly.

"Certainly, Mr. Cubitt. I shall get back to you before the end of the weekend, so rest assured."

"Good, that's good. So tell me... is it anything serious?"

He looked truly worried, and John thought he must love his wife dearly; but Sherlock did not seem to care much, for he replied coldly:

"It would be better if we did not discuss this here and now."

"Of course, I understand," Hilton answered precipitously, his look apologetic. "Well, I shall go and get prepared. Please enjoy your breakfast – and don't worry about cleaning anything up, Maria will take care of it."

"Thank you, Hilton," John said, since Sherlock seemed deep in thought, and unlikely to answer at all. Their host smiled meekly, and went back into the house too. John filled his cup with tea, and Sherlock's with coffee.

"So... horses?" There was a smirk in his voice. Sherlock frowned.

"I was just trying to make up for that idiot's blunder. It is necessary that we spend the day with Elsie Cubitt."

"But that's not the only reason, is it?" John insisted, leaning in closer. "You're truly scared to ride, aren't you?"

"And why is that so funny?" Sherlock finally snapped. "I was never good at dealing with animals. They're so brainless you can't even manipulate them, it's all about instinct and... Stop laughing!"

But John couldn't. This was so typical of Sherlock, and yet picturing him trying to talk a horse out of something was so hilarious that he couldn't help it. Sherlock snorted.

"You really are idiotic, sometimes."

"Sometimes? That' an improvement."

"Don't be stupid."

"I thought I was already."

"Well, don't be _more_ stupid."

Their eyes locked, and it took only a few seconds for them to break into a fit of giggles. John loved it when Sherlock laughed. It was never noisy or ostentatious, but sober and genuine in its simplicity. You barely heard it, but the way his face lit up mischievously and contorted into a smirk was so full of jest John found it irresistible.

Once they had quieted down, he handed Sherlock a piece of toast with jam.

"Here. You have to eat something."

"I had something yesterday!" the detective protested.

"You had a piece of _cake_, Sherlock!"

"And isn't that food?" he grumbled.

"Not proper food. Not enough, anyway. Here. Or do you want me to feed you?"

"You already feed me..." Sherlock growled. John rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock, you have to eat if you want to be able to function, you know? You actually happen to be a human being."

John felt his blood turn cold when he noticed how pale his partner had become.

"Sherlock?"

_**I know you do have the muscles. You're so thin I can feel them shifting under your skin. It's a wonder how you manage to function with so little food – but then again, maybe you don't, do you, dear?**_

The detective felt a shiver run down his spine, but shook it away and abruptly took the toast from John's hand, biting at it feverishly, devouring it.

"Sherlock! Sherl... what the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

He jumped to his feet as Sherlock choked on a piece and took what was left of the toast from him.

"Did you even bother chewing before you swallowed?" he inquired, appalled.

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered, trying to get the rest of the toast from his lover, and failing as John raised his hand away. Sherlock scowled, but drank a sip from his coffee, and reached for another piece of toast – John however was faster than him and covered his hand with his, stopping his frenzy. He looked him in the eye intensely.

"What were you thinking? Tell me. What did I say? What did I make you think of?"

Sherlock took his hand away.

"Nothing."

"Sherlock..."

"I said it's nothing, John."

Something in John's gaze wavered, and he sat back down silently. Sherlock took another bit of toast and ate it, more slowly this time. He didn't glance once at John, not wanting to see his expression. John's pained expression was actually painful to see – it didn't express any complaint or plea; just tension and steel features, the expression of a man used to being confronted with terrible things. Sherlock hated to see it.

He shifted awkwardly on his seat, trying to dispel the hateful voice filling his mind.

"John? I'm eating."

John didn't reply, and his gaze remained cast down, pensive and shut off. It made Sherlock even more nervous.

"I've had two pieces of toast. John? Don't you want to eat?"

Still no answer. Sherlock frowned.

"Fine," he said, standing, "well, you can just join me in our room once you're done with breakfast."

He was about to turn and leave, when John caught his wrist in a death grip. Sherlock froze.

"Sit down," the ex-soldier said, and Sherlock couldn't decipher whether it was an order or a prayer. Either way, the voice was so compelling he fell back to his seat mechanically.

"Sherlock... What do you dream about at night?"

The detective blinked, not having expected such a question.

"What do you mean?"

John looked up and fixed his gaze on him.

"Your nightmares. What are they about?"

Sherlock shivered, but soon the flash of panic on his face was replaced by a scowl.

"You know what they are about," he replied dryly.

"I need you to tell me."

"Why are we even having this conversation?"

"Because I can't read your thoughts and I can't work out where I've gone wrong when you suddenly turn white and do something crazy!" John exploded.

Sherlock stiffened and looked up with something like horror in his eyes – disbelief, too. He hadn't intended to anger John. At all. He was certainly scared, but a little miffed, too.

"I thought I was supposed to be eating!" he protested.

"Yes, Sherlock. Why did you suddenly change your mind and take the piece of toast?"

"Because you asked me to."

"You're lying."

Petrified, Sherlock was at a loss for words. If he could no longer fool even John, what would he do?

"I..." He stopped, confused, not knowing what to say next. Then irritation swelled up in his chest and his eyes shone with frustration. "What are you so angry about? I don't get it. I didn't even do anything wrong, this time."

John felt something break in him and he grabbed Sherlock's hands, pressing them tightly in silent desperation.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I think I'm angrier with myself than with anyone else."

Sherlock frowned slightly, getting even more confused.

"With yourself?" he asked, incredulity in his voice. "Why would you be angry with yourself?"

John repressed a sigh.

"Because I'm an idiot."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, still not understanding. John had always been an idiot, so to speak, and he'd never been so aggravated about it. The doctor smiled sadly, for once able to follow Sherlock's thoughts.

"I can't read your thoughts like you read mine. I don't know what I said that made you go into a frenzy suddenly, and I..."

"Stop right there. I don't always guess what you think correctly."

John shook his head.

"Is this the eating problem again? Look, I told you: this is for your health. You're perfect. You don't need to put on weight aesthetically speaking, I'm just..."

"I know."

John eyed him searchingly. "If that's not it, then what?"

Sherlock remained silent and averted his gaze to avoid seeing the flash of hurt in his friend's eyes. For lack of a better way to understand, John started repeating the whole conversation in his mind. What could have possibly triggered this? What word, what expression? He suddenly stopped. _You have to eat if you want to be able to function, you know? You actually happen to be a human being. _John groaned.

"I'm such an idiot."

"Will you stop saying that?" Sherlock remarked, annoyed. True, John was no genius. But Sherlock was well aware that _his_ definition of an idiot wasn't _John's_, so his friend saying so meant something entirely different. Not good.

"Sherlock, you _do_ function properly."

The detective lost the very little colour that remained on his face and in seconds was white as a sheet.

"Sherlock? It's me."

"I know it's you. Don't be stupid."

John frowned, tired of the attitude already, and coming to a decision stood up and straddled Sherlock out of the blue, wrapping his arms around him, hugging him and snuggling up to him like a koala to its tree. _Been wanting to do that for a while_, he thought.

Sherlock stiffened at first, than squirmed a bit, but John remained wrapped around him and it didn't seem he felt like moving.

"Uhm... John?"

"Mm?"

"What are you doing?"

"You're being annoying. There's no use talking."

"... so you're hugging me?"

"So I'm hugging you."

Sherlock blinked, then looked around anxiously, a bit restless, not knowing what to do with his own arms.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Won't you have breakfast?"

"Nope."

"Then let's go to our room?"

"Nope."

Sherlock gave an adorably confused frown.

"But John, we can't stay here like this all day."

"Mm..."

Sherlock sighed and looked up to the sky, ignorant of what was expected of him, and deciding that if John wanted anything, then he'd ask. _But he did ask, didn't he?_

Focusing on the clouds so as not to think too much on the tightness of his throat, Sherlock murmured:

"They're black. Black, red and white. The dreams..."

John's eyes snapped open but he didn't move an inch, and kept embracing his infuriating detective and the chair he was sitting in. "Mine are grey, yellow and brown," he whispered back, pressing himself closer to the pounding chest. Sherlock didn't add a word, but clumsily wrapped his long, awkward arms around his friend, voiceless.

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_**xXx**_

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"It's such a pleasure finally meeting you," Elsie said, snapping John out of his thoughts some time later, as they were driving with Mrs. Cubitt through the countryside, which turned out to be a lovely sight indeed. They'd been chatting for half an hour or so, and John was getting more and more amazed at his friend's acting skills. He had also come to the realization that he found Sherlock much more endearing as his usual asocial, careless and clueless self, rather than as the perfect guest and agreeable man he was presently pretending to be. In other words, he preferred him when insufferable and candid, and not so boringly friendly and charming. _Well, he doesn't need to know that... _he pondered, not wanting his partner to make it an excuse to act even more like a jerk on a daily basis. He could picture it so well: _"But John, you said you liked me more when I was infuriating, remember?" _

"Be assured that the pleasure is shared," Sherlock replied amicably.

"I had no idea he had friends who were... well..." She trailed off, a little uneasy.

"Gay?" the detective finished for her, smiling a little too perfunctorily.

"I'm not..." John stopped in mid-sentence and hit his head against the car window. Sherlock turned wide eyes to him, his expression clearly saying: _What in the world are you doing?_ and Elsie arched an eyebrow confusedly. _Idiot, _John thought. And then, lost in a sea of confusion: _Wait. Am I supposed to be gay now?_ Sherlock rolled his eyes, barely hiding a smirk. In a cartoon, John's eyes would have been spiralling, he mused mockingly.

"I'm not so surprised," John eventually finished. "I mean, Bill and I weren't together when we met Hilton. We were just a bunch of uni pals hanging out together."

When he realized both other passengers were staring at him strangely, he let out a little nervous laugh, and added.

"I mean, I don't think Hilton is especially gay friendly or anything. He doesn't mind, and we were good friends, so..."

"But you would know, wouldn't you?" Sherlock suddenly cut in, eyeing Elsie. "That he isn't especially gay friendly."

John turned a puzzled gaze to Sherlock, then to Elsie. _What?_

"And you also know we're not really uni pals of your husband."

At this, John stared at Sherlock, stunned. _WHAT? _

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___tbc _;)


	19. Lying 2

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**Chapter 19: Lying (2)**

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"I mean, I don't think Hilton is especially gay friendly or anything. He doesn't mind, and we were good friends, so..."

"But you would know, wouldn't you?" Sherlock suddenly cut in, eyeing Elsie. "That he isn't especially gay friendly."

John turned a puzzled gaze to Sherlock, then to Elsie. _What?_

"And you also know we're not really uni pals of your husband."

At this, John stared at Sherlock. _WHAT? _

Elsie went so pale the doctor thought she'd pass out, but instead she braked hard, so violently they were all propelled forward and only avoided injury thanks to their seatbelts.

"What the..." John began, but he froze when he saw Sherlock's instinctive reaction had been to stretch his arm to the side before him, as if to prevent him from smashing into the seat in front of him. As the car came to a halt, and there was obviously no danger to be feared, Sherlock removed his arm and averted his gaze embarrasedly.

"I..." Elsie started, but she fell silent just as soon, obviously in shock.

John sent Sherlock a confused look, at a loss as to what to do.

"You have a female lover, right? She's the one sending you those messages," Sherlock went on, as if they hadn't been stuck in an unmoving car in the middle of the road.

"Um, sorry, don't you want to park to the side or something?" John suggested, looking nervously behind them. Sherlock glared, but Elsie resumed driving slowly, regaining some composure.

"You are right, Mr. Holmes."

John jumped at the name, befuddled. So she truly had known all along their real identities? They must have looked like idiots, playing married to fool someone who was in fact fooling them... Well, not fooling Sherlock, obviously.

"How did you know?"

"Well, the dog, for one thing."

"The dog?"

"She has a dog, doesn't she?"

Elsie nodded stiffly, her gaze clearly frightened.

"I thought she was dead, you see," she murmured, a catch in her voice. "There was an explosion in her building, and..." She trailed off, and seemed so distressed John scowled at his friend. _Did you really have to tell her that now? She's driving, for God's sake!_

But Sherlock paid it no heed.

"Abby and I were engaged, you see. If I had known she was alive, I would never have..."

Her voice broke again, and she started to cry.

"But why don't you tell Hilton?" John asked. "Get a divorce, maybe?" Wasn't that the obvious thing to do?

"I can't do that!" she exclaimed. "You don't know him. He loves me. He'd kill her for sure."

John arched a disbelieving eyebrow and glanced at Sherlock, whose face remained expressionless.

"So, what do you plan to do?"

"I don't know... I just have no idea!"

"You've been seeing her, though," the consulting detective pointed out.

She turned to him in panic.

"Please don't tell Hilton!"

"Can you look at the road, please?" John groaned as they almost missed a bend.

She complied, swiping her tears away with the back of her hand.

"You must understand we were hired to explain why the dancing smileys put you in such a state of horror, Mrs. Cubitt," Sherlock went on.

"I know... I know, but..."

"What makes you think your husband would _kill_... um, Abby?" John inquired, incapable of picturing Hilton as a murderer.

Elsie shook her head in despair. "He told me. On the day of our wedding, he told me he would not tolerate it if I loved anyone but him."

"You're free to get a divorce, though," John insisted, finding the whole affair incomprehensible. A jealous husband did not always lead to murder, for Christ's sake!

But Mrs. Cubitt started shaking, and her eyes filled with renewed tears.

"He won't let me go. I know he won't..."

_So that's why she's been so distressed ever since she received the coded messages._ John tilted his head to the side.

"Wait... But why did she write to you using smileys?"

"It's a code we created when we were little girls. We grew up together. It's a proof that it's really her writing to me, and when I saw it I knew she was alive."

"I see."

John glanced at Sherlock again, but the detective's face was inscrutable.

"All right," he said. "Considering the situation, I guess it would be fine if we didn't tell a word about Abby to your husband."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes! Thank you! I knew you'd understand..."

"But the question is," he cut off, "what do you want us to tell him? You've been terribly incautious in handling the situation I'm afraid."

"You're right, indeed... What could you tell him?"

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking. This is such a strange case, I don't see what could possibly explain your reaction to the dancing smileys. Why didn't you think of anything before he was so desperate he went to a detective?"

"I was just so lost, and so scared... I can't lie easily, Mr. Holmes, especially not to my husband..."

The rest of the ride was spent in heavy silence, interrupted by Elsie's intermitent sobs.

When they arrived back to the house though, her face was in check again, and she smiled weakly when they got out of the car.

"I'm sorry it turned out to be such an unpleasant drive. I guess you didn't get to enjoy the scenery very much..."

Sherlock returned her smile amicably – his attitude definitely kept surprising John, who did not know what to make of all this.

"That's fine, Mrs. Cubitt. We'll just take a stroll through the country some time in the afternoon – and perhaps you could lend us your car so we can go to that tearoom again?"

"Of course!" Elsie nodded with fervour.

"And don't worry: we'll try to think of something." He winked at her knowingly, and John had to stop himself from gaping.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes!"

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

Sherlock and John had lunch alone in the kitchen with the cook Maria, while Elsie retired to her room for the day, feeling very weak.

"So you're all abandoned!" the good woman exclaimed as she served them. "Mr. Hilton has gone riding, and Madam is unwell..."

"It's okay, really," Sherlock replied smoothly. "We were thinking of taking a romantic stroll around the countryside. Do you have any suggestion?"

John choked on his drink and stared. _What?_

But Maria was beaming. "Of course! If you take the little path behind the house on the side of the orchard, you'll have a nice walk in open country."

"Perfect!" Sherlock exclaimed as he stood. "Well, John, shall we go then?"

"You don't want coffee?" the cook asked, very surprised at the sudden burst of enthusiasm.

"No, thank you."

_Thanks for answering for me_, John thought as he followed rather grudgingly, thanking Maria for the delicious food he hardly had any time to eat. As soon as they were out and could no longer be heard, he asked his friend:

"So... How long have you known that Mrs. Cubitt knew about us?"

"From the very beginning."

John blinked.

"But how?"

The consulting detective smirked, and John had to avert his gaze so as to repress the urge to kiss him. This wasn't good. Sherlock smirked every day. A lot.

But he also liked the attention, and frowned as the doctor turned away from him.

"I deciphered the code of the dancing men," he said rather dryly.

"Really? When?" John pressed, unable to keep his eyes away from his friend when he was being so fascinating and _brilliant_. Sherlock smiled with satisfaction, and replied in a off-handed tone:

"When you shoved me up against a wall. Well, a bit after that, actually."

John turned crimson and had the very silly reaction to look around him, checking if no one had been listening. Obviously, no one had, since they were surrounded only by fields.

"How... Why... Wait. Was _that_ the sudden illumination you got while we were..." He trailed off, stunned and a little miffed at how casually Sherlock was treating the matter. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I like to save my best effects until the end," he retorted.

"Your best effects?" John was seriously starting to get annoyed. "Did you see the poor woman? She was in a state of shock and she didn't even have lunch! It must be hard enough for her as it is with her husband she seems to fear..."

He stopped in mid-sentence as he noticed Sherlock was _chuckling_. That was the last straw.

"Sherlock, it isn't funny!" he exclaimed, quite outraged.

"Oh yes it is, John. You are _very _funny."

"Wha—"

"Did you really believe a word of what she said?" Sherlock cut in.

John froze.

"What?"

The sleuth rolled his eyes.

"Think, John, just think! Don't you find it weird that she kept playing oblivious when she knew who we were?"

"Well, if she's really scared of her husband, she—"

"God, John, look at him! That guy, kill someone? Don't make me laugh."

"I'm really not trying."

John's curt reply brought Sherlock back down to earth, and he abruptly fell silent. John arched an eyebrow.

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly, as if chasing some unwanted thought away, and resumed as if nothing had happened, but in a more neutral tone:

"Elsie Cubitt does indeed have a female lover. But she was never reported dead. They have never stopped seeing each other, and they planned together the murder of Hilton Cubitt."

John was so flabbergasted by the revelation he completely forgot Sherlock's peculiar behaviour just a moment before.

"How do you know?" he inquired, his eyes filled with wonder – and probably admiration, too.

"As I said: I deciphered their codes. Thanks to you, I think."

"Thanks to me?" John repeated dumbly, too awestruck to use his brain properly.

Sherlock did not reply. They walked in silence for a few minutes, and John had time to sort his thoughts and register what had just been said.

"How did the code work? " he asked finally.

"Once I had recognised that the symbols stood for letters, it was easy enough. I just applied the usual rules. E is the most common letter in the English language, so the dancing man that was most recurrent probably referred to it. On the second message Hilton had brought to you, there appeared to be only one word – for none of the men was holding any flag. Since there were two separated Es in it, and only five little men, the word could have been something like "lever", or "sever" perhaps. Or, most likely, "never". So I got the letters N, V, R... Then I guessed a word that looked like E_ _ _E would probably be 'Elsie', and—"

"What did they tell each other in their messages?" John cut in, too concerned about the situation to be very curious about ciphers and methods to understand them for now. This didn't seem to please Sherlock, who gave a sullen moue. But since John wasn't even looking at him, he dropped it and went on:

"When and where to meet. That we were coming."

"But how..."

"Moriarty planned this."

John stopped dead in his track and stared at his partner's back. Sherlock turned to him, and developed:

"He might even be the one who put Elsie in contact with a rich bachelor heir in Great Britain. In any case, he's the reason Abby and Elsie started using their code so obviously – he surely asked Mrs. Cubitt to let her husband see it, and act horrified."

"But why?" John insisted, completely lost.

"Well... Because they're _dancing_ little men, for one thing."

The doctor swallowed with some difficulty.

"And?"

Sherlock glanced at him, then looked straight in front of himself again.

"He wanted to lure me into a trap."

John's eyes widened. "Then why did we come?!" he exclaimed frantically.

"Because I won't fall for it," Sherlock replied with a thin smile. John grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to look him in the eye, none too gently.

"What. Is. Going on? Sherlock."

The detective blinked, surprised at the sudden outburst.

"Relax. Do you seriously think I would've brought you here if there had been any danger?"

"I hope. We live with danger on an everyday basis."

"But this is Moriarty."

"One of his games again?"

As John's grip slackened, Sherlock stepped back and resumed walking.

"Of some sort, yes."

"What sort?"

"Originally, Elsie and Abby had probably intended to make the murder look like an accident. Or a suicide, maybe."

"So Elsie would inherit all the money from her late husband."

"Precisely."

"Originally?" John underlined.

Sherlock nodded.

"I don't see what you... Oh."

As realization dawned on him, John looked worriedly at his friend.

"They're planning on blaming it on us."

"On me, John. You are above suspicion. But me..."

"No one could ever suspect you of murder!" John burst out.

Sherlock stared pointedly. "Really? I can see many people who'd be more than happy to indict me."

His expression darkened. John remembered Sergeant Donovan, Anderson, and thought that more than half of the Met would probably be very happy indeed.

"But there wouldn't be any proof," he persisted, desperation in his voice.

"Moriarty can make proof."

"But he's not here!" Then, suddenly vibrant with anger: "Is he?"

Sherlock sent him a glance sideways, observing his tensed features, but shook his head negatively.

"As I said, he's just playing. Testing me. It's so simple, really. He must have told the two girls that if they didn't blame the murder on me, he'd destroy them, because they owed him. Something of the like. He's just having some fun."

"And he's got a bloody twisted sense of it," John muttered threateningly. Sherlock noted the fury, and became aware of just how much the doctor seemed intent on killing the consulting criminal with his own two hands. Telling him it was vain would be useless, though. John was even more stubborn than Mycroft, perhaps even more stubborn than Sherlock himself, for he had strong moral principles.

"So what do you plan on doing?" John wondered.

The consulting detective smiled, his eyes sparkling. "You'll see."

"Can't you even tell me?!" John snapped irritatedly.

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Don't you trust me?"

The voice was annoyed, the tone, accusing. But John could hear the undertone of uncertainty in his friend's coldness. When Sherlock was happy – excited over a case, gleeful thanks to a challenging murder – he was on fire, as he himself put it. John found the expression quite fitting: Sherlock was indeed radiating, burning with the energy of the thrill and the exhilaration of danger, relishing the stimulation it provided his brain with. When Sherlock was bored, he was loud and unnerving, whined all day long and shot at walls. John had got used to it, and truly hoped that now, he'd always find a way to occupy his friend, even if it implied giving his own body for the sake of experimenting. No, what was terrifying, truly terrifying, was when Sherlock was cold or silent. When he was hurt, he turned to ice. That was the stage beyond annoyance, beyond boredom. John had only started noticing it recently, but that was also when Sherlock looked the most alone.

"I trust you," he said.

"I know I messed up that day we were kidnapped and brought to the... to the basement, but it wasn't a game. He wasn't even playing, he..."

John repeated: "I trust you."

"Good," Sherlock said quickly, averting his gaze nervously. "Good."

Slowly, very delicately, John came closer to him and circled his waist. Sherlock stiffened slightly, but let him do as he liked.

"I just don't trust him," John murmured.

"Quite rightly so."

They exchanged an amused look, and a knowing smile graced their lips, a sense of intimacy mirroring on their faces. John hugged his partner tightly in a surge of affection, and Sherlock almost cowered, then panicked even more as he thought his reaction might very well deter his friend. But the doctor only slackened his embrace, lacing their fingers together and resting his head on the detective's chest.

When they parted, he looked up at him and asked:

"So... Why did we go on a stroll for? Are we going somewhere? To see Abby, perhaps?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Then what?"

The detective smiled playfully.

"As I said. Just a lovers' stroll in the countryside."

John stared.

"You're not serious."

"Umm... Nope. Actually, I just wanted to touch you in open air."

And without further notice, he tripped John and made them roll onto the grass by the side of the little path.

"Sherlock! What..."

John was interrupted by one of those bruising kisses that left him breathless and panting for more. But this time, something in his partner's eyes made him put a hand on the detective's chest, and push him back gently. The kiss felt too forced, the eagerness too skilfully shown. Sherlock looked at his friend inquiringly – but the uncertainty was back in the clear pupils.

"Sherlock." John caressed soothingly the cold palm with his thumb. "If you're not comfortable with anything... physical, it's okay. I don't mind. Well, maybe I will at the beginning, a bit, but... What I'm trying to say is that we don't have to do it. I won't leave you, even if you don't want me to touch you."

Sherlock pushed his hand back feverishly, eyes wide.

"What are you saying?"

"That it's fine if you don't want the sex."

"I..."

"Look, I didn't want you to think that you were disgusting, dirty or undesirable – or any other nonsense."

"Is that why you touched me in the first place?"

"What? No! God, no. I wanted you." John saw something flash in Sherlock's eyes and realized he'd used the past tense.

"I want you," he corrected precipitately. He felt himself blush with shame, hating to sound so bestial in front of his ethereal, intellectual partner, but he forced himself to keep his head up, and to look Sherlock in the eye.

"I want you, but I won't leave you if you refuse me. Hell, I won't stop loving you if you refuse me!"

Sherlock smiled jadedly. "This is chemistry, John. Whether you want it or not, if our relationship isn't fulfilling, you'll easily fall in love with someone el–"

"But it is fulfilling! I–"

"Do you think that _I_ don't want _you_?" Sherlock cut in, realization hitting him. John took a deep breath.

"All I'm saying is that in any case, it's fine. It's all fine."

Sherlock just stared at him, utterly lost and confused. He just didn't understand how their conversation had ended up being about _this_. He didn't understand why John was suddenly making such a fuss. He didn't understand why it triggered a bitter taste in his mouth, when he should have been glad that John was being so tolerant and open-minded. He didn't understand, didn't understand... And the loss of sense was making his mind spiral right back into a chasm of self-deprecation.

"But it's not all fine, is it?"

"Sherlock..."

"My body is horrendous and I–"

"Sherlock!"

"I'm just grotesque. I am nothing physically. My body is only good for trans–"

John interrupted him with a kiss, swallowing his babble from his very lips.

"Shh..." he whispered against his mouth.

"Don't you shh m... mmh!"

John tried to keep the kiss gentle and reassuring, but Sherlock's mouth was so hungry and his tongue so violently desperate that he was having a hard time not drowning into the touch.

"You're not grotesque," he whispered, resting his brow against Sherlock's, their noses rubbing, their lips brushing. "You're beautiful." Then, as an after thought. "You're handsome, Sherlock."

The detective snorted.

"You're a very bad liar, John."

John kissed the corner of his lips, then his cheek, his cheekbone...

"I know..."

… the side of his nose, his eyebrow, the temple...

"... that's why I wouldn't lie to you."

… the top of the ear, the lobe, the chin. Sherlock was letting him do whatever he wanted with his face, each kiss making him shiver a little more, of pleasure, expectation, or just an overload of undesired emotions, he couldn't tell. All he knew was that Mycroft had been right. John was so much under his skin now that when they parted, he would take all warmth away.

"Then you're not lying," he murmured. "That's why they say love is blind."

His voice was deep, his tone mocking – the tone of a cynic. John's hand in his curls pulled the hair gently and curved the nape of his neck, forcing Sherlock to lock eyes with him.

"And do you think it is? Blind."

Fear and an indefinable anguish flickered in the clear pupils, which blurred – but Sherlock did not avert his gaze. He forced himself to look in the depths of John's irises, to really look, even though their intensity was blinding, their determination dazzling._ You give me so much_, he thought.

"It blinds you," he finally let out in a whisper, "it blinds you, but it clears my mind. I told you already... You are unbeatable as a conductor of light."

John felt his heart clench at the words, and he hugged his friend tighter. But Sherlock suddenly swooped on him and impaled him with his tongue. John squirmed and moaned under the onslaught, but soon surrendered. Just as he did though, the detective broke the kiss and looked him in the eye, frowning in childish discontent.

"John. I want you to touch me. Touch me."

And as John just lay there, blinking in bewilderment, Sherlock groaned and added demandingly:

"Now."

* * *

_**xXx**_

* * *

_**.**_

_**.**_

_**.**_

_tbc _


	20. Touching

.

.

.

* * *

**Chapter 20: Touching**

* * *

.

.

"That's why they say love is blind."

His voice was deep, his tone mocking – the tone of a cynic. John's hand in his curls pulled the hair gently and curved around the nape of his neck, forcing Sherlock to lock eyes with him.

"And do you think it is? Blind."

Fear and an indefinable anguish flickered in the clear pupils, which blurred – but Sherlock did not avert his gaze. He forced himself to look into the depths of John's irises, to really look, even though their intensity was blinding, their determination dazzling. _Yo__u give me so much_, he thought, quite scared at the fact.

"It blinds you," he finally let out in a whisper, "it blinds you, but it clears my mind. I told you already. You are unbeatable as a conductor of light."

John felt his heart clench at the words, and he hugged his friend tighter. But Sherlock suddenly swooped on him and impaled him with his tongue. John squirmed and moaned under the onslaught, but soon surrendered. Just as he did, though, the detective broke the kiss and fixed his gaze on him, frowning in childish discontent.

"John. I want you to touch me. Touch me."

And as John just lay there, blinking in bewilderment, Sherlock groaned and added demandingly:

"Now."

John stared and observed his friend closely. There was determination in his eyes, but he could see no desire. Frowning, he brought his hands to the pale cheeks and... pinched them, then pulled. He loved the way Sherlock's eyes widened in indignation.

"Whot ore you dchoing?!" he asked, mystified, before he scowled as he heard his own silly voice.

John chuckled and before his partner could protest, pressed his lips to Sherlock's lightly, not intending to tease at all – just giving him the softest of kisses. Sherlock quivered, and when his lips parted, John had a very, very hard time not to give in. _Damn you,_ he thought, but he forced himself not to deepen the kiss. Instead, his lips fell to the dear chin, to the throat, then up the neck to the ear, covering the temple with butterfly kisses. Sherlock frowned under the attack, and glared at his friend through his curls and the never-ending pecks. John smiled.

Sherlock was obviously annoyed, and the fire was back in his darkening pupils. John stopped his ministrations, and stroked his cheek, their faces mere inches apart. Slowly, very gently, his hand fell to the nape of his lover's neck, and he rested his brow on Sherlock's as his fingers started tapping lightly on the soft, soft skin.

It took the detective a few seconds to realize what John was doing – what he was _playing_. The first notes of Bach's _Double Violin Concerto in D minor_. It hit him like lightning, and a shiver ran down his spine.

"What are you..."

Stopping in mid-sentence, he was appalled to hear his own voice break into a sob. Pursing his lips in an attempt to stifle it, he became aware that tears were streaking down his face, and he fell back in horror. But John's hand on his nape, never stopping its playing, kept him in place, preventing him from just recoiling out of fear. He could easily shake off the embrace, though, if he truly wished to get rid of John. But he didn't. Especially not when his flatmate was so evidently doing this for _him_, and not to please himself.

John's other hand came to rest on his chin, and caressed his tight lips until his mouth trembled under the touch and fell apart – just like Sherlock felt himself falling apart. _That's not quite true... _the voice whispered in his head. He shook it off, but it was right. He hated the feeling, and he didn't even want to think about it; but he was _letting_ John undo him, disentangle the terror and the shame, unravel his whole mind and body through disconcerting sensations. His gestures were puzzling, his touch so perplexing. It terrified and galvanized Sherlock all at once. He craved the tingle to his senses, yet it scared him senseless, and consequently, peeved him to no end, because he hated having to admit that he was _scared_, and he could hardly convince anyone of the contrary in his current state. Especially not John.

But the doctor was making no comment, only stroking Sherlock's tears away, brow against brow, their noses brushing; his fingers, on the back of Sherlock's head, were still playing the concerto.

Sherlock hated John's gentleness, hated how _considerate _he was being – he hated it, because it made everything harder, and only hurt more. It was so terribly understanding, so terribly tolerant and sickeningly selfless.

"Do you not want me?"

"You know I do," John whispered back, his voice firm and secure.

"Then why?"

"You know why."

Sherlock shivered and grabbed John's wrist, stopping him from caressing his tears away. Breathing in deeply, he synchronized his respiration with John's pulse, which was not hammering, but rather regular and soothing. Assured.

Hesitantly at first, then more confidently as the music went on, Sherlock started playing the second violin's part on his partner's wrist.

At the silent gesture, at the renewed duet through a movement that could only be received, a music that was to remain unheard, John felt a pain he'd never known. Loving Sherlock physically hurt. John wasn't sure whether it was because it was _Sherlock_, or whether love was supposed to be painful, and he'd just never found out before.

He was interrupted in his musing by Sherlock's other hand coming to rest on his back, and beginning to tap gingerly on his shoulder blade. It wasn't the concerto, though. John had no idea what it was exactly, but somehow it felt like it held some meaning – like Sherlock was truly telling him something, something more than the music, something...

He froze. _Morse code_. God, only Sherlock would think of using Morse code in such a situation.

"Only you could be so twistedly poetic," he murmured against his friend's mouth, and was startled to feel it pressed against his own with desperation.

"It's not desperation," Sherlock groaned against his lips, before he resumed kissing him vehemently.

"Then what...?" John sighed, already shivering with sheer want. Sherlock's smirk against him only enhanced the longing.

"You know what, John."

_Desire._

Hearing his name sent a jolt of electricity throughout the doctor's body, and he remarked to himself distractedly that there really was no way he could ever belong to anyone but Sherlock. _Longing, belonging... This is stupid. _A pause. _And since when do my thoughts resemble Sherlock's so much?_

"Won't you pay attention to my real voice rather than the one you hear in your head, John?"

John jolted.

"Wha–"

"I can see it on your face," Sherlock whispered in an unwittingly (or not so unwittingly?) sultry voice.

"The annoyance?" John suggested playfully.

Sherlock smirked, and John squirmed helplessly. "No, John..." _God, stop saying that name._ "The infatuation."

"I'm not infatua–"

"Shh. Quiet."

John was about to snap that he wasn't his dog and wouldn't take such condescending orders, but his mind changed as it dilated under the hunger of the kiss they shared. He couldn't help but smile into the embrace. Sherlock felt like an infant – a very demanding, starving infant, who would suckle pitilessly on the breast of his mother. Slowly, very gently, John broke the kiss, all the while keeping Sherlock in a tight embrace, holding him close. His fingers continued to play the concerto on the soft, pale nape of his neck. Sherlock's kept playing his part on John's inner wrist, right against his pulse.

"You said 'Touch me', but you weren't any more specific. I feel like touching you like this, is it all right with you?"

As he spoke, John let his free hand play with Sherlock's earlobe and stroke the soft spot behind it. Sherlock sighed with contentment and nodded.

"It's fine."

But when John started playing with his nose and his cheeks again, he scowled and sent him one of his death glares that looked ridiculously adorable when he was having them with such dishevelled hair and a slight blush on his face. Be it anger or embarrassment, it just made John want to eat him all up.

"When I said 'touch', though, I didn't mean 'play with me, John'."

The doctor smirked, amused.

"Oh, really?"

His fingers danced on the long neck, and made their way to his throat, playing down the shoulder and the arm until they met Sherlock's very own, which had danced up John's arm to his shoulder and were now playing on his chest.

Miffed that he was being beaten at his own game, Sherlock frowned.

"Not the musical playing, John, the–"

"Then be specific," he interrupted. "Tell me what you want."

Sherlock froze and almost missed a note – almost. He blinked, then seemed to consider the different (and very varied) options that were being offered to him. It was extremely difficult, all the more so as he'd set up all this little romantic outdoors 'stroll' only for John's benefit. Even if the doctor himself had never realized it, Sherlock had deduced that 'sex out in the open' was definitely one of his fantasies, and since he still seemed a little upset about not having been able to touch Sherlock the previous night, the consulting detective just thought it would be a good idea to give him the opportunity. Yet here he was, poking his cheeks, pulling them gently, playing with his nose, his earlobes, his curls, tracing his chin and his eyebrows, stroking his lips, as if he were a nice wax figurine, a toy of some kind, and John a five year-old girl.

And now he was even asking to be told what to do? _But do whatever you want!_ Sherlock wanted to shout back. That meant, however, that John would keep playing with his face, while he was engraving the concerto in his skin and soul all over again. Sherlock was at a complete loss as to what to do. A flash of confusion traversed his gaze and he simply said:

"Do whatever you want."

At the words, John felt something sink inside of him.

"Is that what _you_ want?"

Anxious not to say something wrong again, Sherlock just nodded firmly. John sighed.

"All right. That's okay, too. But you must tell me what feels good, and what doesn't. What you like, what you like a lot, and what you don't really enjoy... Can we do that?"

"That's a lot of talking," Sherlock remarked.

John smiled and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"Yes, Sherlock. But we can do a lot of talking, right? I won't manage it in Morse code, though, especially not if I have to concentrate on the concerto too."

"You're doing fine."

_T.H.A.N.K. Y.O.U., _John tapped in Morse code on the detective's chest.

They exchanged an amused, knowing look. _Thank you_. That was also what Sherlock had been tapping, repeatedly, until John had noticed. Then he'd stopped, perhaps out of shyness, perhaps out of restraint. Either way, John loved him even more so for the simple sobriety of the gesture.

They were now entering the _largo_. _Perfect timing_, John thought. Stroking a lock of hair away from the beautiful white brow, he kissed the temple softly, and rested the bridge of his nose on the side of Sherlock's head, nuzzling and breathing in deeply the intoxicating scent.

"You know, your dreams... nightmares," he corrected.

"Mm?"

John let his left hand roam across Sherlock's chest and caress his arms and shoulders, while his right hand kept playing the Double on his lover's throat very, very gently.

"Well... What are the white ones about?"

Somehow the colour drained even more from Sherlock's face, and his hands became even colder.

"John, I..."

The words failed him, just like everything else. He couldn't possibly answer that the whiteness in his nightmares was _pleasure_ – for what would John think? How could anyone have bad dreams about pleasurable things? Perhaps they weren't so bad, perhaps they were just so intense they wiped away the black and the red and...

"Sherlock. Sherlock! Hey, stay with me, will you?"

Sherlock snorted.

"Not doing so would be quite hard considering our position, don't you think?"

John looked down at him and smiled. True, lying on the grass under him, Sherlock could hardly go anywhere physically. But in that damn head of his... John kissed his eyebrow and caressed his forehead with his own.

"I mean stay here wholly."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John chuckled before rolling onto his side next to his friend, their only contact their fingers, still playing, on each other's wrists, Sherlock's long arm across John's chest. The doctor closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the afternoon sun on his lids and the coolness of his lover's touch against his skin.

"Is your plan getting your body used to the intensity, so that at some point you'll stop feeling so shattered by the waves of pleasure?" John went on, sensing the echo of Sherlock's shiver running down his arm into his hand and into the music he was playing on him.

"No."

John turned his head towards his partner and came face to face with him. He smiled, and kissed his much too tempting nose, which wrinkled under the nettlesome peck.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I love your nose. In fact, I love your face. I think I could spend hours just kissing it. Weird, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," Sherlock concurred strongly, and his insistence was so comical, John couldn't help but giggle like an idiot and kiss him again. But he stopped himself this time, aiming for the lips to put an end to it, and to silence Sherlock's protests. When they parted, he murmured:

"So... no?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I just want to... learn."

John blinked.

"Learn? Learn what?"

The detective frowned in confusion, obviously looking for the correct words. "How to dance when my senses are shattered. Well, not just the senses I guess... and I don't like metaphors, but... how to make it work, you see? Like an archipelago."

At this, John's eyes turned into saucers.

"An archipelago?" he repeated dumbly.

"Yes. Scattered pieces of land, small islands that shouldn't make sense at all – but that still make a whole somehow, that are linked in some way. To have an energy linking the morsels, that would keep them alive."

"Thank God you don't like metaphors..." John grumbled, not getting a word of what Sherlock was saying. Islands? Energy? _Morsels_?

Sherlock sighed and rested his brow against his friend's.

"What I mean is that..." His fingers danced up John's arm all the way up to his shoulder and ended on the nape of his neck – John realized this was, for both of them, a very intimate, vulnerable, and consequently erogenous part of their bodies; John loved touching Sherlock there, but the detective himself always seemed to prefer the throat. Naturally, the throat was just as intimate and vulnerable and erogenous, with the jugular vein and the sensitive skin. But for some reason, the symbolic dimension of the nape was much stronger for John. He hadn't thought Sherlock had noticed at all. But for him to play the end of the _largo _on that specific spot meant so much, and felt so heartbreakingly protective on his part, that John felt himself fall in love all over again.

"What I mean is that I have to explore the sensations, and..." With his other hand, he traced an invisible line traversing John's chest, all the way down to his hipbone. "... I have to explore yours, too. But that's easier. I think I could be perfectly content if I always touched you, and was never touched."

"But you..."

Sherlock gave one of his irresistible Cheshire cat-like grin and replied in a deep voice:

"Oh, I would get off on it, I assure you." His hand fell innocently from John's hipbone to his thigh, then to his crotch, and as the poor doctor squirmed helplessly, Sherlock pressed his own hardness against his leg in silence and chastely kissed him on the cheek

"See? That really wouldn't be a problem."

"But I want to touch you..." John let out in a sigh.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. That's the problem."

John's eyes snapped open.

"It's not."

The consulting detective, startled to be thus interrupted, arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

"If that is your reason for concern, then I am telling you, it's not a problem. I can live without touching you. Well... maybe we can discuss the hugs at least? Light kisses?"

Sherlock blinked and had to repress a chuckle. John could truly be adorable. He kept his face in check, however, and let him go on.

Since Sherlock wasn't answering, and his expression remained impassible, John swallowed and continued promptly:

"OK, well, we'll see about that, it's fine. As for you touching me, I'll probably get annoyed with it at some point, especially if I can't touch you at all... it _will_ feel a bit like I'm just some toy or stress release doll, so... But I guess we can talk about it."

Sherlock nodded gravely, giggling like crazy inside. John really was something.

As the detective still wasn't saying anything, John misunderstood, and added precipitately:

"Of course, it's perfectly fine if you don't touch me at all either! I can live without sex. Well, perhaps not yet, but I can take care of it myself and... Uhm, Sherlock? Won't you say something?"

"Certainly, John. I was just waiting for you to finish babbling rubbish."

"Babbling rub... _What?_"

"You didn't let me finish. Although, I think I was quite clear about it." He snuggled up closer, crawling up to John very much like a predator to his prey, until their breaths were mingling. "I want you to touch me. Touch me. _Now_."

"Oh, you impossible man..."

John rolled both of them to the side so that he ended up on top, and started to unbutton Sherlock's shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"Stripping you."

"Completely?"

"No."

Sherlock pouted – not that he wanted to be stripped completely, mind you, but because John was being bossy again – or motherly, whichever. Same thing.

After the shirt came the trousers, and again Sherlock let John remove the piece of clothing, obedient but not especially helpful either. Not bratty, but rather princely. Of course, the shoes and socks had to go too, or the trousers would have just been stuck at the ankles, and if that would have made for a cute, funny sight, John doubted Sherlock would have appreciated it very much.

Once he was done getting rid of the unwanted pieces of clothing, John stood and admired his work. Sherlock lay sloppily, pearly white against the bright green grass and wild flowers, a frown on his face.

"Seriously, John, what could possibly be arousing about me lying half-naked on the grass?"

John smirked. _Everything, you idiot._ He went down, straddling him, and retorted:

"Well, for one thing, you're more than just half-naked, _love._"

"Oh, really? Why do I feel a bit at a disadvantage here, _darling_?"

"Umm... Perhaps because you are?" John teased as he traced his partner's lips with his thumb, then parted them and slipped his fingers inside gently, caressing the lower lip. Sherlock shivered.

"Is that all right?" the doctor asked, looking his lover in the eye intensely. "How do you like it?"

Sherlock blushed, then scowled... and bit.

"Ouch! You–"

"How am I supposed to answer if you keep your fingers there?" Sherlock pointed out.

John pouted. "You didn't have to–"

"I like it. But you're not going past the teeth."

John blinked in surprise, then smiled.

"Yes, your highness."

He obliged pleasantly, enjoying the way Sherlock slipped the tip of his tongue between his teeth to tickle the intruding fingers. _Perfect timing for the allegro to begin_, John thought as he stroked the lips goodbye and let his hand fall back to the throat and the neck. He lowered himself and kissed Sherlock lightly on the chin.

"I'm going to go down, now. All right?"

Sherlock bit his earlobe playfully, if a little snappily. "How about I tell you when it's _not_ all right, mm?"

John laughed, and the detective was so surprised by the wholehearted reaction that a candid smile spread across his face.

"Sure," John said.

His hand playing the _allegro_ fell to Sherlock's hipbone, while he wrapped an arm around his waist. Sherlock moaned softly and arched his back as John pressed his fingers into the sensitive spot in the crook of it.

"Good," he whispered in a breath. "It's good."

John chuckled against his partner's chest, and nibbled at a nipple just to test the reaction – which turned out to be a good idea, for Sherlock whined loudly and writhed under the bite.

"Unh..."

"Uhm? Not good?"

Sherlock shivered and pressed John closer to him, unintentionally rubbing their erections against each other. They gasped in unison.

"It's... fine..." Sherlock let out, breathless.

"Just fine?"

"Just... fine..."

His glowing pink cheeks and his now lust-glossed eyes made for a very attractive sight, but John was intent on keeping to the lower parts for now. He played with his hipbone and pelvis, enjoying his partner's moans when he tapped the _allegro_ on the hip joint, which seemed to be a ridiculously sensitive area on Sherlock's body. Gently but quite assuredly, John parted his legs, tracing the music onto the soft white skin of his thigh, and he could positively observe the jolt that it sent straight to his friend's groin.

"Oh. You're liking the thighs, it seems."

"Obviously," Sherlock grumbled.

John smirked, and leant in to kiss him on the nose.

"Won't you stop doing that?" Sherlock exclaimed with annoyance, wrinkling his nose adorably. John grinned.

"Nope."

He jumped, however, when he felt Sherlock's hand – the one that was playing so skilfully the second violin part of the concerto – creep up his right buttock.

"You're not removing any of _your_ clothes," the detective whimpered with a moue that made John melt and beam like an idiot.

"I thought you'd never ask."

"Let me do it."

Soon John was left with nothing on but his boxers. He looked around like an agitated puppy.

"But Sherlock, what if someone comes by?"

"That didn't seem to bother you too much when I was the only one naked."

"Don't be stupid. I'm more concerned about you being seen than me."

Sherlock frowned, not liking this at all. He arched an aristocratic eyebrow.

"And why is that?"

John blushed. Sherlock stared in amazement, for he could not fathom the reason for it at all.

"Isn't it obvious? I just don't want anyone else to see you but me."

They locked eyes, and Sherlock blinked.

"Hum, John... Surely you must realize there is absolutely no way that I will ever let you lock me up in a room away from everybody's eyes?"

"Don't be silly," John retorted as he crawled onto his partner and straddled him again.

He jolted suddenly as Sherlock palmed him out of the blue.

"What the..!"

"It's impressive what extreme reactions we can get from such a small morsel of flesh," Sherlock commented with interest in his matter-of-fact voice.

"Sherl... ah!"

Sherlock removed his hand with a stroke – the last thing he wanted was to upset John. As the doctor played the last notes of the _allegro_ on his partner's torso, playing with his nipples tantalizingly, he was in fact quite glad to see the concerto come to an end: now he would have both his hands free.

"You really test my capacity to concentrate, you know..." John muttered.

"I don't need to test it."

"Right. You're just pushing me over the edge."

Sherlock smiled innocently and tilted his head.

"I know," he replied sweetly, a smirk on his face. John shook his head and pressed the very last note on the nose of his infuriating lover.

"You...!" Sherlock exclaimed with indignation.

But John did not give him enough time to protest. Swooping down on him, he bit down on his throat, very lightly, just enough to leave a mark. This seemed to calm the detective, and for one second John wondered if he'd done something wrong, and if his friend had frozen on the spot again. He looked up worriedly, but Sherlock was smiling down at him in a surprisingly warm way, his face glowing with an uncharacteristic tenderness John had never noticed there before, or had always construed as the genius merely indulging him.

_Well, to be fair, perhaps that's exactly the case,_ he mused quite morosely. But Sherlock seemed to read his thoughts. Ruffling his hair with both fondness and possessiveness, he pulled him down into a kiss which turned out to be of the _I-am-going-to-devour-you_ type. John smiled into the kiss beatifically, and did not even bother feeling stupid about it. He was much too Sherlock-conscious to feel very self-conscious at the moment.

His hands roamed down the beloved chest, stroking the hips and circling the waist, finally lifting Sherlock's back slightly to sneak his hands under his buttocks. He was pressed so close to the detective that he felt the air catch in his throat, and his heart miss a beat. John froze and was about to remove his hands, but Sherlock sat back on them forcefully, and John squealed in painful surprise.

"What... Sherlock, are you all right?"

"You're stuck there now," the detective remarked childishly, the biggest of grins splattered on his ridiculously happy face.

"You idiot! Release me now!"

"What, aren't you enjoying the groping? Well, to be fair, you can't really grope... But I can move, if you'd like."

"Sher..."

He did move, quite efficiently so. John could not believe how stupidly arousing having a man pressing his bum onto the ground in his hands was. _Not __just __any man, though_, he stressed mentally, sighing in contentment as he kissed his way down his partner's throat, his whole body pressed to his. That's when he noticed the trembling.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John."

"You're shaking."

"Your deductive skills never fail to impress me."

"_Sherlock._"

"I'm not too keen on the... arse, obviously."

_Obviously?_ John thought. Then it hit him. _Obviously. God, I'm such an idiot._ But he had touched Sherlock there before...

"Precisely. It shouldn't be a problem. I don't... like it, and I don't think I would especially like it even without the trauma."

He was trying to keep his voice in check, John could tell, as if he'd been commenting on the weather.

"Release my hands, Sherlock. I can find other ways to touch you."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, his nose wrinkling like that of a stubborn child, and he shook his head obstinately.

"I do not want any prohibited area on my body, John. Surely you can understand that."

John blinked. _Prohibited area? _What kind of vocabulary was that?

Since he could not fondle his partner or stroke him in any way, nor kiss him on the lips – John's head was approximately on the level of Sherlock's nipples, with his hands stuck under his buttocks – he decided to nuzzle up against his torso instead, in a surge of affection, and kissed a nipple. Sherlock shivered.

"Actually, I'm not too fond of nipple-teasing either..."

John jumped back.

"What can I do, then?! You're keeping me trapped here and–"

He was interrupted by Sherlock lowering himself and pressing his lips to his promptly, messily, almost missing his mouth and kissing his chin as well.

"You're the one who said I should give you feedback."

"Yes... Yes. You're right. I'm being an asshole. But then again you're being stupid! Just release me now!"

"No."

"Why?"

"...I want it to be your touch."

"What?"

"It's your touch I want to remember."

John felt the words squeeze the air out of his lungs, and freeze the grass and the wild flowers and the tree around them. Then the ice seemed to turn to the most brilliant sparkles and the world melted into colours again, beautiful and alive as water, water dancing around them, and pouring on them, pouring...

"John. John!"

John felt Sherlock's hands on his face, holding it firmly with his palms and thumbs, and they felt incredibly warm all of a sudden, but the image of Sherlock was still peculiarly blurred and...

"You're crying. Why are you crying? What did I say? Did I say anything? John? John, answer me, for goodness' sake!"

"If you release my hands, that'd be great and I could wipe my fa–"

"I can take care of that."

John blinked, disbelieving. But a moment later Sherlock was indeed stroking his tears away very carefully, more methodically than lovingly perhaps. John however, was more than happy with the touch, and wouldn't have traded it for any other, more gentle, maybe more lover-like one. This was Sherlock, and he was touching him artlessly. It was all that mattered.

The tears were soon taken care of, and John wondered since when he'd been the type to cry so easily out of pure shock. _Since the one person you ever loved wa__s defile__d?_ a snide voice offered. He stifled it, but it had a point.

Once he'd found his voice again, he rested his head against the beating chest, and said:

"I can find other ways to touch you there. You know, without you actually squashing my hands into the ground?" He tried to sound playful, but failed quite miserably. Sherlock was stroking his hair, caressing the nape of his neck, and John felt very much like he was the one being consoled here, which really wasn't right. But perhaps that was what Sherlock needed. Not to be comforted, but to comfort. John still did not like it.

"You seemed to like it quite a lot before you noticed I was trembling," Sherlock remarked smoothly.

"Yes, well. You do realize that's quite a turn-off."

Sherlock stiffened.

"Oh, don't be stupid!" John exclaimed. "Not you trembling in general, or you doing anything in general, just... you, not liking it, lying there not saying a word about it, and me not even aware of it until... Just... You do understand, right?"

Sherlock gave a small, silent nod.

"I love you," John said suddenly, and he kissed Sherlock's chest, avoiding the nipples.

The detective gave a somewhat pained smile.

"I said no prohibited area. And nipple-teasing is pleasurable. I just don't like it because... I just don't like it."

John frowned. There was definitely something there.

"Because?"

"Nothing. It's irrelevant. Here. I'm releasing you." Then in a quieter voice, almost hesitantly, as if he were wondering whether he was entitled to say this again or not: "Touch me?"

"Sherlock..."

"I have to say it is getting quite painful."

"...What?"

Sherlock stared.

"Oh. Right. Sorry, I..."

"I am well aware that you are much more experienced in this John, but you must realize that the whole concerto plus our discussion is a very long time for me to feel you right on me. I'm quite surprised I haven't come yet."

"Well, first of all, let's get rid of this," John offered with an apologetic smile, removing the boxers. Sherlock blushed and looked away. Being entirely naked out of the flat, in the middle of nowhere, on the grass, was definitely not one of _Sherlock's _turn-ons. But the look of utter bliss on John's face, of mirth and marvel, was worth it a thousand times. He looked like a child at Christmas. Or perhaps like a puppy awaiting a treat, Sherlock added mentally. Either way, his whole behaviour made up for the situation, and so Sherlock forgave him how uncomfortable the ground under him and the grass and flowers against his skin were (Sherlock decided he would probably prefer either very rough surfaces, or very smooth and enveloping ones... grass and the earth under it were just sneaky and unpleasant to the touch; very nice to look at, but he would not repeat the experience, except for John).

The air felt surprisingly cold around his hard member, and Sherlock looked down at it to see if anything was wrong. His eyes widened when he saw John kneeling between his spread legs, his face mere inches away from his penis. He stared for a second, the second it took for his brain to send the explosive signal throughout his entire body, and he burst with a moan, which soon turned into a cry when he felt John mouth him _as_ he was coming.

"No... please... don't...aah!"

He tried to push him away but was already too far gone for his moves to be coordinated in any way, and so only managed a very weak – and failed – attempt. John was so engrossed in his own task that he did not even hear the plea, and only concentrated on heightening his partner's pleasure and awareness of it, holding his hand as he was giving him his first blow job – hell, as _he_ was giving his first blow job! – caressing his thigh softly (for he had noticed that the thigh, and the inner thigh especially, did not elicit any shaking, but on the contrary, quite satisfied, non-traumatized responses). If he could link the buttocks to the thigh somehow in Sherlock's mind so as to make him feel them as part of a pleasurable whole, perhaps that could do the trick.

John found that the taste of sperm was not as bad as he'd thought at first. Because quite frankly, he'd expected it to be awful. Nor did he expect that he would enjoy sucking someone's cock: just the idea of putting a penis into his mouth was enough to make him go green and sick to the stomach. The thought was absurd, but more than that, it disgusted him (although he never had any problem having _his_ sucked and fondled and taken care of, mind you). But as ridiculous as it sounded, this was Sherlock, and it made all the difference.

If he had had any lingering doubts until now, this could not leave even the trace of any: he was helplessly, desperately, irreversibly in love with the git. There was no other way he could actually do this. There was no other way he could _enjoy_ it. Because he was enjoying it, quite immensely. He loved the way Sherlock was powerless in his mouth, squirming helplessly under him, moaning and thrashing and screaming his pleasure, and John was here holding the most importance piece of the whole, the key, so to speak, that could still elicit one more cry, one more shiver, send another unexpected wave of ecstasy through the body already racked with spasms of pleasure. He loved the sense of power it gave him, of authority over Sherlock – he was complete master of his release, and it felt amazing. He could positively feel inside his mouth, against his tongue, that he was enhancing his partner's pleasure tenfold, and that must be one of the best feelings in the world for a lover to get.

When it stopped, and Sherlock finally became limp in his mouth, John slowly, very gently let go of his soft member, always holding his hand, always caressing his thigh, now in a soothing, non-arousing way. Sherlock seemed too utterly relaxed to get excited again, for now anyway. His breathing, however, was erratic, and so John crawled up to him and rested his head on his own arm to look down at his face and see his expression.

He looked simultaneously mortified, touched, and terribly confused.

"You... you just..."

John ran a hand through the black curls fondly and kissed his sweaty brow.

"I what?"

"You didn't have to do that."

John felt very cold suddenly, and wondered if Sherlock had enjoyed it at all.

"I'm sorry, I should've asked, I..."

"No! I... I liked it... no, more than that... It was good... very good..."

He was almost purring, but soon seemed to come back to his senses, and panicked again.

"But _you_ can't possibly have enjoyed it!"

"What?"

"You're straight, John. You can't possibly like penises and breast-less chests and..."

"Wait, wait, wait... stop, Sherlock. Stop right there." John petted his lover's head, calming him. _So that's where the problem with the nipples comes from,_ he thought.

Sherlock fell quiet, pursing his lips like a sullen child who has just been scolded by his mother – revolted, but scared.

"I would be terrified by a breast-less woman with a penis, if that's what you're saying. But in case you haven't noticed, you're a man."

"Exactly!" Sherlock concurred, as if that was the heart of the issue. And perhaps it was.

John kissed him on the nose because he was just too damned cute for his own good.

"Will you _stop_ this? I'm trying to have a serious conversation here!"

"Yes. Then tell me, genius, why in the world would I give you a blow job if I did not feel like it? As you can observe, there is no weapon being directed at me. Nor at you."

Sherlock swallowed, and nodded.

"But–"

"Shh. Yes, I'm straight, I'm quite aware, thank you. Though I'm sure I would have a hard time convincing anyone who'd burst in on us right now."

Sherlock smirked.

"But think about it for a second."

At this, Sherlock frowned, offended. _You think I don't think?_

"Would you handcuff Lestrade to a bedpost and do to him what you did for me last night?"

Sherlock's eyes widened in horror.

"No! God, no!"

"Right. Well, as much as I like the guy, I would never in my whole life be able to give him a blow job without being sick. And I am not saying he's disgusting or anything – he is, in fact, quite good-looking."

John missed Sherlock's displeased pout at the comment, and went on.

"I'm just not attracted to men."

"I'm not sure how I'm supposed to take that."

Their gazes met, and they broke into a fit of giggles as they looked away.

"I hate grass. And I hate wild flowers," Sherlock whined.

"Aw, you poor thing..."

"You...! _Oh."_

The widest grin spread to Sherlock's glowing face. John didn't like that face. At all.

"Oh, don't lie, _darling._ We both know you love it."

Sherlock swiftly tripped John and brought him back down into his arms, pinning him to the ground before he could put any clothes on.

"How about you have a taste of the grass and lovely flowers on your skin, mh?"

"Mmh... Is that all I'll get to taste?" John teased, playing happily with Sherlock's earlobe.

The detective smirked.

"Oh yes."

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

_tbc_


	21. Gentling

.

.

* * *

**Chapter 21: Gentling**

* * *

.

.

The widest grin spread to Sherlock's glowing face. John didn't like that face. At all.

"Oh, don't lie, _darling._ We both know you love it."

Sherlock swiftly tripped John and brought him back down into his arms, pinning him to the ground before he could put any clothes on.

"How about you have a taste of the grass and lovely flowers on your skin, mh?"

"Mmh... Is that all I'll get to taste?" John teased, playing happily with Sherlock's earlobe.

The detective smirked.

"Oh yes."

John pouted, not expecting that sort of answer.

"Yes?" he repeated.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed with a grin as he leant in to kiss him. John beamed smugly.

"That didn't taste very grass-like to me," he remarked when they parted, his tone playful.

This time, Sherlock frowned and let his hand fall deviously to his partner's exposed groin, fondling and pinching his thighs.

"Ah! Sherl... ngh... Please... If you do something like last night again, you're going to kill me."

"That's a nice kind of death, though, isn't it?" the detective commented with a sly smile.

"Sherlock, I... ha! I'm serious. Be more gentle, I don't want to pass out again."

"You wouldn't pass out," Sherlock argued with a scowl, "It's not like we have hours this time."

"_Sherlock_."

"Fine, fine... Gentle, then."

He stared at his hands and at his friend's crotch for a moment, pensive. After a while, John wondered what was wrong and looked up at him questioningly.

"Sherlock, by gentle I didn't mean 'Stop touching me altogether'."

"Quiet, John," he retorted, ignoring the indignant scoff of his flatmate. "I'm thinking."

"You're... What? You're _thinking_? About the case? _Now?" _John was so miffed he was at a loss for words. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Not about the case, John. About you."

John blinked, confused.

"You're thinking about me," he reformulated, incomprehension in his voice. "I'm lying naked before you and you're _thinking_ about me?"

"Shut up," Sherlock grumbled, looking away as a very slight blush crept up his cheeks. John watched in fascination. "You never asked for gentle! How can you expect me to give you what you want right away?"

John's eyes widened and he missed a heartbeat. A silly giggle escaped his lips and in a surge of sheer mirth he wrapped his arms around Sherlock, brought him down to him again and smothered him with kisses as they rolled on the grass.

"John! What the.. hmpff! What are you do–"

But the smaller man didn't let him finish, and kept kissing him until Sherlock had clearly had enough and was ready to walk away there and then, leaving his stupid – and very naked – lover behind.

"Will you stop this?!"

"How can you expect me to give you what you want when you're being so damn adorable?" John teased with a wide grin. Sherlock snorted.

"Fine. Have it your way. You're the one with the erection, after all."

"Oh come on, don't be a twat."

"No, no, really, I don't see why I should waste my time giving it so much thought if you're just happy frolicking around," Sherlock continued obstinately.

John gave him a sullen moue, but shrugged.

"Fine. Let's get dressed and return to the house, then."

"You're going to walk back with a hard-on?"

"Not like it never happened before," John said off-handedly as he groped for his clothes. A flash of insecurity traversed Sherlock's eyes, and he looked away. He did not move, though, and just sat there, bare and absent-minded.

"Sherlock? Are you not putting your clothes back on?"

Sherlock heard the words, but they just passed across his mind without him registering. What came out next from his mouth was less than a whisper:

"I'm sorry."

John froze, unsure whether he'd heard correctly or not.

"What?"

"I can't be as good as anyone else."

"You... No, no, no, wait!"

Discarding the clothes he was holding, John fell to his knees and grabbed his friend's shoulders, forcing him to look up at him.

"Hey. You keep saying idiotic things, you know."

"Why, thank you, John, I feel much better now."

John chuckled softly and kissed his lover's brow.

"What do you find so funny?" Sherlock protested. Then, in a quieter voice: "Am I really that laughable?"

At the question, John's face became grave all at once, and he fixed his gaze, clear and straightforward, on Sherlock's darkened pupils.

"You're not laughable. Never. Your movements are always swift and graceful, your gait just makes people want to follow you, and..."

"I meant during sex, John," Sherlock cut in. _Obviously,_ suggested his annoyed, yet somewhat lost voice.

"During sex? You're anything but laughable. You're refreshing and endearing and so bloody talented it's unfair, but..."

"I'm not talented," the other man mumbled, regretting that there was no pillow around to bury his face into. He really hated this type of conversation, but knew it couldn't be avoided, if he wanted this to work with John. And he did want it to work, desperately.

"Will you stop interrupting and let me finish my sentences? Inexperienced doesn't mean untalented! Surely you know that."

_I do_, Sherlock mused darkly, _but I still can't shake it off..._ The lack of confidence. Never in his life had he truly faced such an unpleasant feeling. The doubt he'd felt during the case of the Baskerville Hound was entirely different: right now his senses were perfectly fine, if assaulted by never-ending waves of new sensations. But he was learning to deal with that. What he really couldn't get rid of, though, was the fear. He did not feel in control of the situation with John anymore.

John was no longer just a friend, and Sherlock already had a hard time believing people could remain best friends until they died. But lovers? They'd have to die very young, then: Sherlock knew nothing more fickle than _love_. When John said "I love you", it was all at once reassuring and disquieting; very satisfying, yet a source of concern. _How long_? Sherlock always thought. _How long will you keep saying that_? He had calculated that considering their lifestyle, their life expectancy wouldn't be great, and at best, they would have about thirty years to live. _Thirty years_. It wasn't that long, without context, but as far as relationships were concerned? Would John seriously need him for thirty years? Right now, Sherlock knew he was what the ex-soldier most needed – someone to take care of, someone to admire, someone who would provide him with the much desired thrill and 'adventures' that he craved. But in one year? In _ten_ years? John would be in his fifties already. Would he still bother with chases and life-threatening situations? And what about family? Sherlock certainly couldn't give him that. If John stayed with him, he would never get to be a father.

So the consulting detective knew that the chances were high that John would leave him within the next five years. It wasn't so bad, he thought. Still, he would rather have remained a virgin for his whole life, and kept John as a friend for thirty years. As it was, either they retained the bond they had now, as the closest two men could be – best friends, or whatever people called it – or they lost everything. Even if Sherlock had never been concerned with such things, he was well aware that people who slept together and 'broke up' didn't usually remain friends. Not close friends, anyway. And John would move out. Sherlock would be alone again.

Suddenly, he realized he'd been silent for quite a while, and John had been observing him intently. He blushed, averted his gaze, muttered something incomprehensible... and then decided it was a good time to make a run for it.

But he still didn't have any clothes on. He groaned. _Why do I have to be naked every time I want to get away?_

"Don't even think about it," John deadpanned, cutting off his thoughts. "Tell me what you were thinking about just now."

"A gentle way to touch you," Sherlock replied smoothly. _So you'll get addicted to my touch and stay. _What he trusted the least was the chemistry of the body. He knew John would probably always be willing to give his own life up for him, because he was a true hero and a true friend. But to keep on living with him was something else entirely. If he could just get John's body addicted to his – his hands, his mouth, his curls, whatever John liked – then he was more likely to settle in Baker Street indefinitely.

"That's not all, though, is it?" John insisted, snapping Sherlock out of his musings again. The detective mentally frowned. _Damn. You're getting better at this. _

"A gentle touch that you would enjoy," he developed. This time, he must have sounded convincing, for his friend seemed persuaded and didn't press any further.

"It's okay if you're not gentle. Just do whatever you'd like, but warn me first."

Sherlock scowled.

"You think I can't be gentle?"

"That's not what I'm saying!"

"Fine. Just lie back."

Rolling them the other way, Sherlock turned around so he was on top, and stroked his partner's throat.

"I'll be gentle," he said, and John couldn't repress a deep shade of crimson filling his face as he squirmed in uneasiness.

"But you have to look me in the eye the whole time," Sherlock added with a sweet, sweet smile that never bode well. John moaned as a shiver ran down his spine, and was mortified to hear how yearning he sounded already.

"You don't have to give me verbal feedback, since I'll be watching you closely..." Sherlock trailed off, revelling in the expected groan his remark elicited from his lover, "...but you must let it all out. You're not allowed to hold anything back. Understood?"

John furrowed his brow.

"You can't possibly ask this of me!"

"But I do," Sherlock retorted seriously. "That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

"Why?" John inquired, curious to hear the reason behind such determination.

"Because I need to know if you like it or not; how much you like it, or how much you hate it... Words are always deceitful in some way if you formulate them in your mind first, as is usually the case."

He caressed John's hip down to the buttock and came back to knead his inner thigh, which made John jump a little and arch his back, unwittingly wanton. Sherlock smiled.

"But your reactions, the noises you make, your facial expressions... Those are much more trustworthy. _They_ are direct feedback. Don't take it away from me by being stupid and repressing it."

"I... aah!" John bit his lip violently, and Sherlock glared.

"I said no holding back."

"You're not being gentle!"

"Yes I am," Sherlock answered, truly surprised that John wasn't finding his touch gentle. "Look, I'm being very gentle."

He was right. All he was doing was stroking and fondling and his kisses were light and soft. But the _places_ upon which he decided to bestow them were all of John's most erogenous spots.

"You devil... This is torture!"

"A sweet one, though?" Sherlock inquired innocently, hiding a crooked smile.

"Aah! It's... torture nonetheless... Sherlock! More..."

Sherlock chuckled and kissed John's brow.

"You're not making much sense, John."

"Stop saying my name," he moaned back, wiggling under him in a – failed – attempt at cutting short the teasing.

"Why? I like your name... John."

"Sherlock!"

"Mmh, definitely keep saying mine," Sherlock nodded in contentment.

As he held John's pulsing member in his palm, stopping his strokes and just holding him, feeling him beat against his hand, Sherlock stared in wonder.

"John?"

"What?" John gasped, out of breath because of the palming.

"Um. Well, you know... It's... good. No, it's... kind of you to..."

"Sherlock, to the point!" John cried out, hardly able to take it anymore, because just knowing that what he could feel around him was _Sherlock's_ hand was almost enough to push him over the edge.

"I like it. Holding you."

At the words, John's eyes snapped open and he glanced at his friend, then at his hand, and back at his face.

"I could do anything to you right now," Sherlock went on. "Anything at all."

He stroked the quivering length and John whimpered.

"Please..."

"I don't know how you can trust me. I don't know how you ended up trusting me, of all people, with this. You're very weird, John."

"Look who's talking," the doctor groaned back.

Sherlock fondled his balls and circled the bottom of his shaft, slowly moving up, like John had taught him to do the first time he had masturbated. He found that performing it on someone else – on _John_ – gave him a lot more pleasure.

"I want you," he blurted out before thinking. Then he blinked in horror as he realized what he'd just said.

John also stared, nonplussed, before his face broke into the most luminous grin Sherlock had ever seen on him.

"That's lucky. I just happen to want you too. Badly, I must say."

"Do you prefer the base, or the tip?" Sherlock asked rather precipitately, just to move on. He rubbed both places one after the other to observe John's reactions. "The tip, then," he concluded as the latter elicited a moan, then a wail, from his writhing partner.

"Sherlock, please..."

"Shh." He petted his hair soothingly, and John couldn't believe the way he managed to mingle gentleness and complete dominance over him so skilfully. "Won't you just relax? You're enjoying this, right?"

"Can't you tell?" John mumbled, averting his gaze.

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "John. Your eyes."

Soon the two glaring pupils were back on him as John glowered, sweating, his cheeks red. Sherlock thought he had never seen anything as endearing. He pinned him with his gaze, and relished the shiver it sent through his lover's body.

"Oh. Interesting."

"What? What is?" John babbled.

Sherlock leant in closer, searching his eyes.

"Do you realize what I can do to your body with my eyes? _Just_ my eyes?"

"You... Oh, I'm never going to hear the end of this."

"Look at me, John."

"I _am_ looking at you!"

"Good?"

"Uh?"

"Is it good?"

"God, Sherlock, it's... aah! More than good..."

Suddenly, something occurred to the taller man, and he frowned.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Were you like this with your girlfriends too?"

"...What?"

"Did you have the same reactions? ...Did you make the same noises?"

John groaned and brought his hands to Sherlock's to stop his moves.

"What the hell?"

"I was just wondering!" Sherlock protested.

"Wondering? Sherlock, look..."

"Never mind."

"No, listen! You ask questions, so listen to the answers!"

"Yes, mother..."

"...You can't call me that when you're holding my– "

"Fine! Just answer!"

"No!"

"But you just–"

"I mean, the answer is no!"

Since he couldn't look away in embarrassment, John decided to harden his glare, which only resulted in exciting Sherlock even more.

"No?"

"No! I always top with a woman, so I don't squirm and I don't babble and I don't–"

"Good," Sherlock interrupted before pressing his smiling lips to John's softly at first, light enough to start with, but getting more and more gentle, so gentle in fact that it got increasingly lascivious until their embrace was so sweetly lewd John felt he wouldn't hold on for much longer.

Sherlock must have understood his signal, for he broke the kiss and murmured against his mouth, so close that his words felt like a caress, and not a mere brushing:

"You feel my hands, John?"

"Ngh..." was all John could manage as an answer.

Sherlock smirked, and in his low baritone voice, ordered:

"Then move in my palm and make yourself come."

John moaned loudly at the command, but Sherlock's voice was so compelling, his touch so taunting, he could no longer take it and complied. Bucking his hips, thrashing and thrusting his pelvis up frenetically, he arched his back and cried out as he fell into rapture, the ecstasy blinding him – and yet he just couldn't get enough and kept thrusting and thrusting, wriggling his hips and dragging Sherlock down into a bruising kiss. He gasped as Sherlock bit down on his lower lip and kept dancing in his arms, too far gone by now to realize how debauched he looked. He wailed and writhed and pounded against the taunting palm until he'd ridden out his orgasm, and fell back limply onto the earth.

Sherlock held his head up so it wouldn't hit the ground, and John nuzzled up to him automatically, aching for the feel of his lover's skin against his, pining for his embrace. Running a hand through his hair, Sherlock obliged without John having to ask for anything out loud, enveloping him with his arms and curls and scent, and his presence was so crowding John felt crushed and exhilarated all at once.

"I love you," he whispered as he buried his face into the nape of Sherlock's neck. "I love you."

Sherlock simply held him, and did not make any comment.

* * *

xXx

* * *

When they arrived at the house, Hilton was already back from his ride. He sent them a funny look, but did not make any remark on their dishevelled clothes.

"How was the walk?" Elsie inquired with a charming smile.

"Lovely," Sherlock replied in the same sugar-coated tone. "It was nice enjoying the fresh air, since we'll be back to London tomorrow early in the morning – and we definitely won't get any there," he said with a sigh.

"Oh, so you're going back already?"

"Already?" Hilton echoed, distress in his voice, and a question in his eyes.

Sherlock nodded.

"We have to visit Mike's sister who is in hospital," he explained, shaking his head sadly.

"Oh well, then we'll have to treat you to something good tonight!" Elsie exclaimed. "Is there anything you'd like to eat?"

The consulting detective turned to John, since, obviously, _he_ did not intend to eat at all.

"Whatever Maria cooks will be fine – she's fantastic!" John replied with a smile.

"All right, then."

"Are you feeling better?" the doctor inquired, forgetting for a second that Elsie had probably been faking it all. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Were you unwell, dear?" Hilton pressed on, turning to his wife with worry.

"No, no, I'm fine! I was just a little tired after the ride, so I rested a bit in my room."

They exchanged a fond gaze, and John wondered how this woman could possibly want to trick such a loving husband.

Sherlock finished a text, then looked up to the couple and announced:

"We'll go to our room and wash up a bit, then come back down later, if you don't mind."

"Of course! Do as you like."

As John followed his friend up the stairs, he murmured:

"Why did you say we were going back tomorrow morning? Our train doesn't leave until three..."

"Indeed. But I would rather have Elsie and her lover try to kill Hilton Cubitt tonight."

John stopped dead in his track.

"What?!"

"Shh! Come on into the room. We'll talk there."

John grumbled an incomprehensible reply, but complied. Once their door was shut, Sherlock resumed:

"As I said, this is a trap. They most likely want to frame us. And if we leave tomorrow early in the morning, this means they will be forced to act tonight."

"But Sherlock, if it's a trap, why don't we just tell Hilton and get the hell out of here?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Have you seen him? He is completely blind. He will not believe a word of what we say, if we accuse his wife."

"...Right. What's the plan, then?"

The consulting detective smirked smugly.

"Put Hilton in such a situation that he will not be able to have any doubts."

John did not reply, but thought that perhaps using their host as bait might be a little risky. However, he could not think of any better idea, so he just checked his gun while Sherlock confiscated his laptop before he went to shower. John told himself that everything would be all right.

"John!" Sherlock suddenly shouted as he burst out of the bathroom, dripping wet and barely wrapped in a white towel. "This is terrible!"

"What? What is?" John said, standing and walking up to him with concern.

"I've just realized something. I might have an illness."

"_...What?"_

"A sexually transmissible illness, John!" Sherlock snapped, as if that had been crystal clear from the beginning.

John blinked.

"But Sherlock, you've never–"

"I could have HIV from birth; or hepatitis B or C or even A considering some of the places I've been to."

"Sherlock, hepatitis–"

"I did share needles, John!"

"Will you calm down!" John yelled. His outburst made Sherlock freeze, and he deflated like a pierced balloon, losing all energy. Quietly he fell back on the bed and sat there, staring at John pointedly.

The doctor took a deep breath, and came to sit next to him on the mattress.

"Sherlock. When you stopped doing drugs, surely they took blood samples. If you'd had any kind of hepatitis, you would know."

"But–"

"Shh. As for HIV from birth, do you have any reason to think so? It is unlikely that you would not be aware by now. I think you're just freaking out suddenly. What made you think of this?"

"Nothing..." Sherlock mumbled, looking away. "I just can't believe I didn't even think of it until now. He _touched_ me, he–"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, putting a hand on his partner's nervous one, "he touched you through your boxers. There wasn't enough contact to–"

"It doesn't matter, John! I was so stupid I didn't even _think_ to check for diseases!"

"So that's the problem? That you didn't _think_ of it? Is that why you're so angry all of a sudden?"

"I'm not angry. Just irritated," Sherlock groaned.

John smiled indulgently.

"Right. Sherlock, look at me."

He did, his mouth pouting, his eyes glaring.

"I'm not a child."

"Yes, you are, but that's beside the point."

"I'm not a–"

"Shh," John repeated, running a soothing hand through the silky black curls that were a little wet from the shower, and caressing Sherlock's clenched jaw with his other hand. He chuckled, and Sherlock glowered. John kissed his nose.

"Shouldn't you be more worried for yourself?" he went on before Sherlock could complain.

"You're a doctor. And a good man. You would make sure that you're completely safe for _any_ of your partners," he muttered.

"Hey," John insisted, turning Sherlock's head and resting his brow on his, "Why are you so grumpy about it?"

"I'm not grumpy!" the consulting detective protested. "It's just that... I was an idiot. I didn't even _think_ about protection and..."

This time, John couldn't repress a giggle, and Sherlock was so offended by his reaction that he stood to get away. But John caught his wrist and brought him back down, pinning him on the mattress, holding him securely.

"Let go!" Sherlock growled threateningly.

John stared, and the taller man felt himself blush unwillingly.

"Nope. Listen to me: the circumstances were such that it is perfectly natural that you didn't think of such things."

"But I'm sure _you_ did!"

John laughed.

"Is that what's making you so frustrated? That for once, I thought of something that didn't even cross your mind?"

Sherlock gave him such a sullen moue that the doctor could only be confirmed in his deduction. This made him giggle even more, and Sherlock bit down on his arm in annoyance. However, it did not intimidate John in the least. On the contrary, he found himself rather aroused by the gesture, and leant in to kiss his insufferable lover tenderly. Sherlock blinked, blushed, and glared daggers at him.

Smiling with amusement, John sneaked a hand down his torso and fondled his groin gently, eliciting a moan from his pinched lips.

"You... Did you listen to a word I said?"

"Mmh," John asserted with a small nod, kissing Sherlock's cheek chastely. "But in any case, if you do have something – which I highly doubt – I'm already contaminated, so there's no point in fussing now."

"But John..."

The quiver in Sherlock's voice made the doctor stop, and he looked him in the eye.

"Stop it. Just stop this. I feel like you're trying to find every possible reason to be sullied, or harmful to me." He stroked his friend's brow, pushing back the curls softly. "You're not. There is nothing wrong with you."

"John..." Sherlock whined, squirming under the tantalizing touch between his thighs.

"It's all right," John soothed, embracing him closely. "Just relax."

"Is _this _your way of–"

"Yes."

Sherlock didn't see what he could answer to that, and so he kept quiet, letting John arouse him until his hard-on became painful, and he sent him a pointed look. John simply smiled, kissed his brow reverently, and gave the last stroke to release him. Sherlock cried out in surprise – even though he should have been used to it by now, he just never seemed to be prepared at all for the blazing torrents of sparkling pleasure to submerge him, and arched his back delightedly before falling back on the mattress with transport. John did not let go of him until he went flaccid in his hand, feeling groggy and utterly relaxed.

* * *

xXx

* * *

Dinner went well – Maria had prepared a full three-course meal, and for dessert the most delicious chocolate cake John had ever tasted. Naturally, Sherlock barely ate anything, but for once John could fully understand: even he was tense (and excited) about tonight's events, and he did not want to feel too heavy with food.

Elsie retired for the night quite early, but the men remained in the little parlour, chatting.

"So..." Hilton began once his wife had gone off to sleep – or had told them as much, anyhow, "Have you found what those little dancing men are?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, and their host beamed.

"And?"

"And you shall see for yourself tonight."

Hilton blinked, confused.

"Tonight? Why? What will happen tonight?"

"As I said: you shall see for yourself."

"But..."

"Just do as usual and read here until midnight. We shall retire for the night now, but I promise everything will be clearer tonight."

"Actually, I wasn't going to read tonight. Elsie wasn't well, so..."

"No," Sherlock cut in sharply, grabbing his host by the shoulders. "Do not mention anything to your wife, and just wait here until midnight. At that time, she will come down herself, and explain everything to you."

"Elsie? At midnight? I don't understand, why do I have to wait?"

But Sherlock was already standing and walking to the door. He turned back and declared in a grave tone:

"You must trust me, Mr. Cubitt. Do as I say, or the most tragic turn of events will occur."

And with those dramatic words, he left the room. John bade good night to their host, not really knowing what to do, and ran after the detective.

They waited for midnight in their room. Sherlock had said that they couldn't keep the light on, or it would be suspicious. So John was hiding in the bathroom, typing on his laptop, only discerning the keyboard from the light of the screen, while Sherlock lay on the bed in the darkness of the room, restless.

Suddenly, they heard a gunshot rip the silence of the night. John jolted, and Sherlock jumped to his feet with panic: it was only eleven.

"That idiot!" he screamed ragingly, before dashing out of the room.

"Sherlock, wait!" John exclaimed. He dropped the laptop on the bed, grabbed his gun and ran after his friend.

But Sherlock wasn't waiting. He had remembered the whole layout of the house from his little visit on the day they had arrived, and knew exactly where to go. John however did not have this information, and lost him at a corner.

"Sherlock!" he called anxiously, not very keen to lose sight of him when they didn't even know what was going on. Well, when he at least didn't know what was going on.

Another shot to his right prompted him to run that way, and a dreadful, feminine howl told him behind which door the tragedy was unfolding. Slamming the wooden panel open, John burst in on a ghastly scene.

Elsie Cubitt was holding the bloodied body of a woman and pointing a gun at her husband. Her face was contorted with hatred, and her hand wasn't trembling. Hilton, on the other hand, was shaking feverishly, and dropped his own gun as the body of the man who had suddenly jumped and taken the bullet for him fell into his arms.

John blanched.

"SHERLOCK!"

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

**.**

**.**

**_tbc_**


	22. Caring 1

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* * *

**Chapter 22: Caring (1)  
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* * *

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* * *

_Hilton Cubitt is an idiot_, Sherlock thought as he ran through the house towards the couple's bedroom. He felt slightly responsible for having mentioned the wife earlier in the evening. Perhaps if he hadn't, and had ordered Hilton to stay in the parlour until midnight no matter what, none of this would have happened.

Whatever "this" was. At this point, he had a number of possible scenarios in mind and could only be sure of which was correct once he'd joined the two lovers and the discarded husband in the room. It didn't take him long, and not once did he think of looking behind him to check if John was still on his heels: it didn't matter. Something more urgent was propelling him forward. He burst in alone on the three.

The moment he entered the room, several pieces of information flashed across his mind all at once.  
The first shot they'd heard in their room had come from the bullet that had gone from Hilton Cubitt's rifle into Abby Slaney's chest. Elsie's lover was either dead or badly injured.  
Hilton must have gone up to the room early and seen his wife with her mistress, which had driven him mad: he'd taken the gun he used for hunting that lay in the corner of the room and had fired before either of the two women realized what was happening.  
Elsie, knowing that her husband wouldn't shoot _her_, had most likely taken care of Miss Slaney, hoping to save her. Now however she had lost consciousness, so it was likely that she didn't stand much chance.

Hence Elsie's fury: she was pointing her own handgun (the exact same model as John's, Sherlock noticed) straight at her husband.

Seeing that specific handgun, Sherlock remembered that indeed, John was in the house, and in that one second, he did something very stupid that he would come to regret: he closed the door behind him. The thought that triggered him to do something so idiotic wasn't very clear in his mind at the time, but he would recognize later that it had been the following: that there were two very mad and well-armed people in the room, and that a lost bullet could do great harm to someone who hadn't asked for it. John had told Sherlock they should just inform Hilton and go away, but the detective had been the one to insist that they stay and convince the doting husband that his wife intended to kill him. It wouldn't be fair if John was injured in the process, just because Sherlock hadn't been very tactful in the way he'd enjoined Hilton to stay in the room until midnight. He was the one who'd messed up, and John shouldn't pay for it.

Sherlock, however, did not have time to formulate all these thoughts as he came into the room. He simply closed the door, calculated that Elsie would shoot in less than two seconds, and ran. The bullet pierced his upper arm before he could think twice about what he was doing, but he did not cry out. Elsie, on the other hand, did – a terrible howl of rage and hatred for the man who had fired at the one she loved. As he fell into the foolish man's arms, the consulting detective simultaneously saw Elsie point her gun at Hilton again, and John burst into the room, a look of panic on his face. Everything went black for a moment and the sharp pain in his arm overwhelmed Sherlock's mind. Distantly, he felt a pair of clumsy arms try to catch him – it hurt even more, and he groaned weakly.

"SHERLOCK!"

Good. John was really here, then. Why hadn't he been there before? Right... The door. _Why did I close the door?_ Slowly, the black faded away, but everything was still rather blurry. One second Elsie was crying out and cursing at her husband with abhorrence, about to shoot him and not miss this time; the next second she was screaming in pain, having received a bullet in the hand herself, and dropping her gun.

"Hilton! Take her gun, now!" John's voice shouted. Sherlock couldn't repress a small smile – or what he intended to be a smile, anyway. Probably came out more as a rictus of pain.

"But... Your friend..."

Then in a flash Hilton's body was replaced by John's, and Sherlock tried to focus on John's touch on his wrist (most likely checking his pulse, he told himself) so as not to pass out.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Hilton, call 999 right now!"

"B... But... I... I..."

Hilton looked around confusedly, in shock. He was trembling, trying to look for a phone as if there would be one in this room. John growled, annoyed, and muttered:

"Damn this, I'll have to do everything. Sherlock, please talk to me."

Sherlock could feel one of John's hands searching him, and he murmured:

"Left inner pocket."

In the semi-darkness, he caught John's tender and proud smile.

"God, even wounded you're brilliant," he whispered back, grabbing Sherlock's phone and dialling 999 himself.

"Hello. I have a man here who took a bullet in the arm just now – I haven't checked if the injury is penetrative or not. We are at Ridling Thorpe Manor..."

Sherlock listened as John gave all necessary indications. His arm hurt. Hilton Cubitt had run to his wife and was about to look at her hand, but she just turned and cried and hugged Abby's still body.

"Hold her at gunpoint, Hilton!" John commanded after he'd hung up ("Please call the police" had been his last words on the phone, Sherlock believed). "Just do it! An ambulance and paramedics will be here shortly, they'll take care of her hand. She's trying to kill you, for God's sake!"

Hilton mumbled something incomprehensible, his eyes filled with fear; but his hand wasn't shaking as he followed John's orders. All the while, the doctor had been forcefully pressing Sherlock's wound with his own jumper, which he'd taken off. He stood, went to take pillows from the bed, opened the wardrobe quite violently, and grabbed towels before kneeling down by Sherlock's side again.

"Don't move. Here, rest your head and upper back on the pillows. I'm here, everything is going to be all right."

"I'll lose my arm..."

"No, you won't."

"You can't know that for sure."

"If you're still talking, then you're not in bad shape," John commented, a little too feverishly perhaps to be convincing. But Sherlock was quite admiring of his friend's calmness. Through the pain, the detective could still see how collected John was – very effective, too. _A real army doctor_, he smiled drowsily.

"No, Sherlock, keep your eyes open. Look at me. Can you see me?"

"I see only you," Sherlock replied truthfully, not even trying to be romantic.

John sent him a pointed look, but continued his nursing in quick, nimble movements. Sherlock could feel the pressure he was applying with determination and professionalism.

"Do you have to press so hard?" he protested in a whimper.

"Yes," John deadpanned. "Unless you want to die from blood loss?"

"I don't want to die," Sherlock whispered.

"You won't."

John's tone was unflinching. Warm and round, Sherlock thought, and at the time it didn't even occur to him that those were peculiar adjectives to qualify a tone. It was warm and round to him, full of certainty, and if it didn't mean that his friend was necessarily right, somehow it still made him feel better. Much better. Suddenly, he realized John had put a blanket on him, and he was stunned not to have been aware of it sooner.

"Not in shock..." he mumbled.

"This is no time to be childish, Sherlock," John retorted curtly before kissing his brow. Sherlock blinked, lost at the contradictory tone and gesture.

"Does it hurt anywhere else?" the doctor inquired. "I don't want to strip you for other injuries if you don't have any, keeping the pressure on that arm of yours is what matters most right now. But tell me, do you feel pain in any other part of your body?"

"Body?" Sherlock repeated incoherently. He did feel the pain – only the pain, and the pressure John was applying. But what did he mean 'where'? It was everywhere. "It hurts," he let out in a whisper.

"Sherlock, keep talking to me. You must remain conscious until the paramedics get here." He tried to hang on to John's soothing, stable voice. The firmness of his tone was incredibly reassuring: it gave him a sense of safety.

"Not Anderson..." he muttered in distress. John's free hand came to caress his brow and stroke the curls away, assuaging and loving.

"No, not Anderson," he assured him. Sherlock smiled groggily.

"Too bad it wasn't in the shoulder, we could've had matching scars; but I would never get a psychosomatic limp." He gave a silly giggle, and John had to hold him back onto the pillow so he wouldn't roll down to the floor.

"A shot to the arm is much better, actually. Not as serious," the ex-soldier commented simply, apparently intent on not losing his composure and snapping at the idiotic detective. "But please stop giggling. You'll lose more blood if you wriggle. Doesn't it hurt more when you do?"

"It does," Sherlock answered sloppily, letting his head roll back. John's hand came to hold it in place.

"Then calm down. You're lucky you didn't get a sucking chest wound, so try to keep your breathing regular, all right?"

"Hmm."

John's hand was still holding his head, but also fondling the base of his scalp in a tranquilizing, motherly manner.

"Don't close your eyes," came the compelling voice that didn't fit with the gentle touch. "Keep them open. Keep them on me, if you like. Do you feel cold?"

"It hurts."

"I know it hurts, but do you feel anything other than the pain? Cold, nausea? You're not sweating, that's good, but–"

"I'm fine. Arm hurts, though."

"I know," John replied softly, kissing his brow again while he stacked a new towel onto the wound and pressed. "The ambulance will be here shortly. Hang on in there, I'm with you."

"I know."

Sherlock tried to keep his eyes on John, but he was feeling more and more lethargic. And his arm hurt. Sherlock concentrated on the pain and the pressure, on John's touch on the nape of his neck, on his light kisses over his face.

"John. I'm feeling groggy. I'll close my eyes, but I'm not unconscious."

"No, Sherlock! Please don't close them. Look at me. You won't remain conscious if you close them. Please."

"I can't. Surprisingly, I'm feeling rather weak..."

A kiss on his nose made his eyes snap open again. John reiterated the gesture on the mouth.

"If you're still being sarcastic, then you can keep your eyes open. Look at me."

"That's all I do," Sherlock growled with annoyance, very much pining for blissful unconsciousness right now. "John, I really want to look at you, but... I'm really dizzy... Think I'm going to pass out..."

"No! Please keep your eyes on me. Think of something."

"Of what?"

"Anything! Strawberries."

"Strawberries?" Sherlock snorted in disbelief. But he was too weak to mock John any further.

"Yes. Do you like strawberries?"

"Don't know... not important..."

"Yes, it is very important."

"Why?"

"Do you like jam?"

"John..." Sherlock moaned, trying to convey in his groan the whole thought: 'Are you taking me for an idiot?'

"Do you like strawberry jam?"

This time, Sherlock glared. His glowering pupils met John's fond, concerned, encouraging ones, and he tried to send all the more daggers as he felt himself melt under the stare already. John smiled, then stripped off his shirt as well, and with it made a cushion he put under the detective's feet.

"That's not necessary," Sherlock muttered with discontent, hating to be treated like... well, a wounded man.

"What? Not enjoying the view?" John teased, and Sherlock never felt like kissing him more.

"Kiss me before I pass out," he ordered.

"You must not pass out."

"I am. Less than a minute... Kiss me," he whined very, very quietly.

Sherlock just had time to feel John's lips on his, John's hand on his neck, before everything went black. He could, however, still feel the pain and the pressure, John's hand on his back, John's mouth on his face. He smiled - or felt like he was smiling, anyway. His eyes had probably closed, he mused, but he could still feel John all around him, and his presence through the pain was... good. He hadn't passed out yet, right? Since he could still feel John.

Sherlock thought he heard the ambulance's siren in the distance before he effectively lost consciousness.

* * *

xXx

* * *

"No, please no! JOHN!"

John awoke with a jolt and automatically searched for his gun before he took in his surroundings and remembered he'd been in hospital with Sherlock for the night. Sherlock had woken up intermittently, always falling straight back to sleep. He'd had nightmares, though, during which he sweated and shivered and begged. Every time he'd heard his partner struggle in his sleep, John's hatred for Moriarty had grown a little more. He was glad however that surgery hadn't been necessary, as the bullet was found in the wall and hadn't been retained in the detective's body. It hadn't hit any major artery either. All in all, Sherlock had been extremely lucky.

Two hours after they'd checked in the hospital, Mycroft had arrived, very angry at John for not having thought of calling him. To be fair, the ex-soldier had been quite busy and distracted at the time, and calling Big Brother certainly hadn't been one of his priorities. Thanks to the British Government, however, he hadn't been questioned by the police for too long. Although he knew they'd probably be called as witnesses during the trial, for now he could concentrate on Sherlock, and Sherlock alone.

"I arranged a bed for you to be put in his room," the elder Holmes had told him before departing. "I must say I am quite disappointed in you, Dr. Watson. I thought you'd be more... efficient in ensuring his safety." At this point, John had been ready to snap, but Mycroft had added quickly, in a darker voice: "But considering how efficient _I_ was for that matter, I can hardly blame you."

And with those words, he had gone back to London. John was sure Elsie Cubitt would bitterly regret having ever shot Mycroft Holmes's baby brother.

John had been plagued with nightmares for the rest of the night – that is, when he wasn't racking his brain thinking about the situation. Even though Mycroft did not seem to hold him responsible for Sherlock's state, John was not as lenient with himself. Naturally, he was quite mad at Sherlock for having run off as usual, getting himself shot in the process. He could not fathom why the detective had closed the door of the bedroom behind him, either. For hours John had been thinking about what had happened, and most of all, about them. Their situation, whether it was working or not; what should be changed.

As he softly caressed the pale skin of his sleeping lover, John wondered what Sherlock's reaction would have been if the injury had happened the other way around: if he had been shot, and not the detective. Would Sherlock have panicked? Would he have been collected enough to do what needed be done? Most likely. But John wasn't so sure, now: before Moriarty's meddling and the trauma from the dreadful hours they'd spent in that basement, Sherlock would certainly have been quite capable of handling the situation. But now? Something about him closing the door behind him told John his friend's mind and thought process had been altered by the experience. Altered by what they had now, too: their 'relationship'.

"Stop making that face."

John started and his eyes widened in surprise at the cherished voice.

"Sherlock! You're awake."

"And I don't like strawberry jam," he grumbled. John stared, wondering to what extent his partner was truly awake.

"Very awake," Sherlock continued to mumble sullenly. "But you were so caught up in your stupid thoughts that you didn't even notice."

John pouted, slightly offended. He'd been staying by Sherlock's side all this time, thinking things over and over, and the remark was a little too cutting.

"How can you know they were stupid?"

"You didn't look happy."

Not having expected such an answer, John calmed down instantly, leaning in to kiss his lover's brow.

"I'm happy to see you awake."

"How is my arm?"

"You tell me."

Sherlock fixed his gaze on him insistently. John got the message.

"You'll be fine. You're not going to lose the use of it."

A small sigh of relief escaped Sherlock's lips, one he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. John looked tired; very tired.

"Have you slept at all? I mean, actually slept, without the nightmares?"

"How do you–"

"You rested your head on my thighs, John. I could feel it when you were dreaming."

A faint blush crept up John's cheeks, and he averted his gaze.

"You're still holding my hand, too," Sherlock pointed out. Then he added haughtily: "I don't need anyone to hold my hand."

The moment he'd uttered the words, he saw the hurt in John's look, and instantly felt the biting remorse gnawing in his chest.

"But I want it," he added quickly as John removed his hand. He tried to catch it back, but didn't dare move too much. "I really want your hand." Then, in a smaller, sheepish voice: "Give me your hand, John."

Their eyes locked and John gave in, lacing his fingers with Sherlock's again.

"How do you feel?"

"The arm hurts."

John nodded. "It will hurt for a while."

"How long will I have to stay here?"

"They should release you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?! But I'm fine! I won't wait another day in a hospital room, John! Not when I'm conscious!"

"Then I'll just have to knock you unconscious. Oh, don't give me that look; you know I will if you're being difficult."

"But John–" he began in a whiny voice.

"I know: you'll be bored. We'll try to find something. But we're not leaving before the doctors say you can."

"But you're a doctor," Sherlock complained.

"Yes," John concurred. "And I'm saying you can't."

Sherlock scoffed and sunk in his pillow a bit more, giving John the most adorable brooding pout in days. John smiled and leant in for a kiss, but Sherlock bit his tender lips and he let out a small cry of pain and surprise.

"Sherlock!"

"I'm not kissing you as long as I'm stuck in this room," Sherlock announced childishly. John shook his head in surrender.

"Fine. But we need to talk. Do you feel too tired for that?"

"Always," Sherlock groaned.

"You didn't ask me if I was fine," John remarked, more to himself than to his partner. Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"You've been staying with me all this time; I could feel your presence. If you hadn't been fine, they wouldn't have let you. Moreover, even though you have a bed, you've been sitting in that chair most of the time, resting your head on me, holding my hand. Surely if you had been injured–"

"Fine, fine! It wasn't a reproach, Sherlock."

"Sure sounded like one," he sulked.

"I wouldn't be mad at you for that."

Sherlock heard the tone, and knew something was wrong.

"But you're mad. Why are you mad?"

John looked him in the eye and gave his hand a little squeeze. Sherlock could not tell whether it was out of affection, or more like a warning.

"You ran off and left me behind. I arrived to see you'd been shot."

"Well, I'm sorry!" Sherlock snapped, wincing in pain at his own outburst because he'd moved his arm unwittingly. "But as you must have noticed, Hilton Cubitt would have been dead if we hadn't hurried. How is he, by the way?"

"In custody. He killed a woman, after all."

Sherlock nodded grimly. He fell silent.

"You're not responsible," John said.

"It is still a failure. I underestimated that man's stupidity."

"Sherlock, it's not your fault! You couldn't have possibly known–"

"Yes, I could have. I just didn't."

John frowned, this time anger burning clearly in his darkened pupils.

"Now listen to me: what happened between those three is not your fault. At all. You said it yourself, Hilton would've never believed us if we'd told him his wife wanted him dead. It is tragic that Abby lost her life in the process, but in the end, she was still going to murder a man herself. And it was premeditated. You can't blame yourself for people's stupidity, Sherlock. It would be endless."

They exchanged an intimate, knowing smile. Unconsciously, Sherlock squeezed John's hand in return.

"Can't they give me more morphine for the pain?" he asked.

John shook his head.

"Try to sleep again?"

"I'm not tired."

"Then let's talk, to distract you from your arm, shall we? Won't you explain the case to me?"

"The little Dancing Smileys?"

"Yes. What was that all about? And why was Abby Slaney in Elsie's room last night?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"I sent a message to her from Elsie's email address – and deleted the email in the Sent Messages folder, of course. Then I did the same from Abby Slaney's mailbox to Elsie's."

"What? But... What did you say?"

"That they should meet around eleven that night in Elsie's room, have some time together maybe. Then go and get rid of Hilton once and for all, while we were still in the house."

"How were they tricked by _that_?"

Sherlock scoffed, puzzled at John's lack of admiration.

"I wrote it in their code, of course. The dancing smileys."

"That's brilliant!"

Sherlock smiled contentedly. Not that he was fishing for compliments, of course... but still. It was always good to have John praising him.

"I sent both emails, knowing that Hilton always stayed up until midnight in the little parlour, reading. I also knew this was a time at which Abby and Elsie liked to meet, probably because they found the risk of being found out thrilling."

"How could you possibly have known that?"

Sherlock stared. "I read their emails, John. I deciphered the code, remember?"

John gave him a lovely pout, though he was probably unaware of how cute it made him look. Sherlock smirked.

"John, can you come closer?"

"What?"

"Come closer. I want to tell you something."

John complied, perplexed, but did not lean in enough, so Sherlock grabbed him with his uninjured arm and brought his face down to his, crushing their lips in a hungry, domineering kiss. John moaned and squirmed, but he was too scared of hurting Sherlock to truly wriggle his way out of the embrace.

"Sherlock!" he protested once the detective finally let go of him, red in the face and panting. His cheeks were glowing and his frown only made him more endearing. Sherlock smiled wolfishly. "I thought you said no kiss today!"

"I changed my mind. But I'll still bite you if you try to kiss me while you're being annoying."

They looked at each other, and a second later were breaking into fits of giggles.

"Don't make me laugh, John! It hurts!"

"Your fault for being so silly," John retorted.

"Well, look who's talking."

They calmed down slowly and John ran a hand through Sherlock's curls.

"Do I have stitches?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. They should be removed within two weeks, though."

"Two weeks?!"

"Stop whining," John said as he kissed his cheek lightly. Sherlock did not bite him, but suddenly pecked him back. John blinked.

"In a better mood, are we?" he said with a smile, resting his brow on Sherlock's softly.

"John. I feel dirty. Can I shower?"

John frowned a little at the choice of words, not liking Sherlock calling himself 'dirty' in any way, even though his meaning was surely just physical in this instance.

"Not alone. But with help, yes. I asked the nurse yesterday, just to be sure."

Pursing his lips imperceptibly, Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"I knew you'd ask," John explained, pressing a taunting kiss to his nose. The detective frowned.

"With help? Are you saying I'll have to be _assisted?"_

Fairly amused by the word, John couldn't help smirking.

"Oh yes."

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.  
**

**_tbc_**


	23. Suggesting

**.**

.

.

* * *

**Chapter 23: Suggesting**

* * *

.

.

"John. I feel dirty. Can I shower?"

John frowned a little at the choice of words, not liking Sherlock calling himself 'dirty' in any way, even though his meaning was surely just physical in this instance.

"Not alone. But with help, yes. I asked the nurse yesterday, just to be sure."

Pursing his lips almost imperceptibly, Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"I knew you'd ask," John explained, pressing a taunting kiss to his nose. The detective frowned.

"With help? Are you saying I'll have to be _assisted?"_

Fairly amused at the word, John couldn't help but smirk.

"Oh yes."

Pouting, Sherlock was considering giving up on the shower altogether when his partner added:

"I can massage your stiff neck and shoulders too, if you'd like."

"In the shower?"

"In the shower."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side thoughtfully – or rather, mimicking 'thoughtful' so John would coax him some more into doing what Sherlock already knew he would indulge in. It worked. The doctor leant in and kissed his temple.

"If you're waiting for me to beg you to let me give you a shower, I'm not going to do it," he murmured teasingly against his cheek. Sherlock allowed a small, crooked smile to light up his face. With his uninjured arm, he reached to stroke the nape of John's neck possessively.

"That's fine. You don't need to beg – I'm feeling generous today."

John chuckled and pressed his lips softly to his infuriating friend.

"Good, your magnanimous Highness. Shall we proceed, then?"

He helped Sherlock out of bed, holding his arm in case his wobbly legs gave way under him, but the consulting detective sent him a condescending look and walked alone towards the bathroom, his gait dignified.

John shook his head and followed.

"Do I have to sit in _there_?" the taller man asked with disgust, pointing at the shower seat which hospital patients used while the nurse washed them clean.

"Well, you can always stand, but if you want me to massage your neck, that might be a bit difficult."

"I really can't imagine why you'd say that, John. Do you believe you are smaller than me?"

"Just shorter," the ex-soldier grumbled before closing the door behind him.

To hide the content smile that was already creeping onto his face, Sherlock decided to keep complaining.

"I look ridiculous in this gown."

"Doesn't matter, you have to take it off anyway."

"Where are my clothes?" he groaned as he tried to strip by himself, wincing in pain because he'd used that damned arm again.

"You mean the very bloody ones? Got rid of them," John declared in an indifferent tone while very discreetly helping Sherlock out. With a few nimble gestures, he'd taken care of the annoying blouse.

"_What?_ You threw them away?"

"Do you realize the amount of blood you've lost?"

"No," Sherlock replied honestly.

John sighed.

"You have lots of clothes at home, I don't see the problem."

"But what am I going to wear?"

"Sherlock, you've got clothes in our suitcase too!"

Sherlock pouted, but John's choice of words ("home" and "_our_ suitcase") was enough to prevent him from sulking.

John started the water and waited until it was warm to test it on Sherlock's right palm.

"How is the temperature?"

"Fine. And stop looking so stupidly happy. It's just a shower."

"Oh? I thought it was a treat? You know, you being all generous."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and finally sat down, looking away.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Sherlock..."

"I said nothing! Will you wash me or are you going to stand there all day?"

John glared, and aimed the spray of the handheld shower straight at Sherlock's face, making him jump.

"What are you... John!"

He shook his head vigorously, trying to get rid of the water, wrinkling his nose and shutting his eyes tightly. His grimace was so adorable that John forgave him and began to wet his hair more methodically in order to wash it.

"Who said anything about the hair?!" Sherlock protested.

"Precisely. You didn't say anything," John retorted. Then, in a lower tone, his voice quieter: "What's troubling you?"

"Nothing," grumbled Sherlock, ever more stubborn.

John's gaze became distant, but since he was standing behind his partner, the detective missed it.

"You know, I've been thinking..."

"Have you?" Sherlock cut in sarcastically.

John resisted the urge to pull the black curls, and took a deep breath to calm down.

"I have."

The gravity of his tone had on Sherlock the effect of a cold shower. Instantly, he became more attentive.

"About what?"

"About the door you closed behind you when _I_ was the one holding the gun."

All at once the air became heavier around them, and they were both shrouded in silence. The only noise ripping the stifling atmosphere was that of the shower, casual and relentless. Sherlock shivered.

"About the fact that you literally jumped in front of a man to save his life," John went on.

"I didn't!" Sherlock intervened. "I tried to push him because that idiot wouldn't move! I certainly didn't intend to shield him with my own body."

"But that's what you did."

"He wasn't moving!"

"Why didn't you run to Elsie instead?"

"What?" Sherlock said, the meaning of John's words already dawning on him. He swallowed with some difficulty, trying to dispel the unease.

John caressed his scalp while shampooing him gently, careful not to wet the bandaged left arm.

"Why didn't you jump on Elsie to distract her and at least alter the trajectory of the bullet?"

Sherlock had no answer. He remained quiet, feeling colder and colder by the second, even though the water was pouring hot over his skin.

"You had a rather uncharacteristic, protective reaction..." John trailed off.

"Absurd, too," Sherlock dropped in icily.

"Yes. That, too."

Silence. Sherlock was almost ready to snap and tell John to stop the bloody water, so unnerving was the regular, nonchalant noise.

"What are you trying to say?" he inquired instead, his tone colder than ever.

"Nothing. I couldn't reach any conclusion," John answered truthfully. "This is just what I have been thinking about."

"John," Sherlock said abruptly. "What would you do if I became stupid? Useless?" _I__f I couldn't provide the thrill of the cases anymore?_

Sherlock wondered grimly since when he'd become more concerned with John's reaction to this kind of situation, rather than his own – the end of the Work simply meaning the end of him. Right now, however, he was more preoccupied with what John had been thinking, and what outcome could possibly be reached.

John tilted his head to the side, perplexed by the question, and started covering his lover's back with soap.

"I don't know. What would you expect me to do? I'm already stupid and useless myself, remember?"

The banter was back in his tone, and suddenly Sherlock felt even colder in contrast, so cold he couldn't stop a very apparent shiver from running down his spine. John was so warm. Yet there was something in Sherlock that just wouldn't stop freezing everything inside, denying him any kind of complete tranquility.

John could be very patient when he'd decided to be; he could remain calm when he'd sworn to himself not to burst out. But even his endurance had limits. As he came back round to the front, washing Sherlock's right arm, he stood before him and looked him in the eye.

"Sherlock. Look at me."

Reluctantly, Sherlock complied, repressing yet another shiver when his pupils met John's. Somehow, he'd never found anybody's gaze so terrifying – and it was utterly ridiculous, for John's eyes couldn't properly _see_, couldn't be used as a weapon against him, analyzing him, deconstructing him, like Mycroft's or Moriarty's. John intensified his gaze and breathed in deeply.

"Now, observe me. Really observe me."

Sherlock froze, his thoughts crushing into silence for a second.

"You want me to..."

John nodded and completed the other's thought:

"Deduce me."

The consulting detective averted his eyes and squirmed in distress.

"You can do it," John insisted.

"I know I can!" Sherlock barked.

His partner's face became even more serious.

"Are you scared to see, then?"

"I'm not scared!" Sherlock exclaimed, his head snapping back up towards his friend. "I am not scared," he repeated, weighing each word. His eyes were now blazing.

"Then look."

Sherlock couldn't decide whether John was ordering him to, or begging him to. Neither, perhaps.

But look, he did.

_Bags under the eyes, didn't sleep well last night – too busy watching over me, thinking of me, having nightmares about me. Resolute expression; not feigned. Military stance __–_ determination. Tensed facial expression _–_ worry but a calm acceptance.

"What do you see?"

Sherlock mumbled something incomprehensible.

"Hmm?" John persisted, coming closer as he knelt down to wash his friend's legs.

"You wouldn't leave," Sherlock repeated in a barely audible whisper.

"I wouldn't," John echoed in corroboration, leaving out the '_obviously_', which might have sounded a bit too aggressive. Or mocking. Either way, he wasn't trying to humiliate Sherlock.

"Anything else?" he continued.

But Sherlock didn't answer, mesmerized by the sight of John kneeling down in front of him, washing his feet. Literally. It wasn't so much arousing as incredibly disturbing to him – that anyone would be mad enough to do such a degrading thing. Not that it didn't feel _good;_ but somehow, something wasn't right.

"It's right if it's consensual," John interrupted unabashedly. "And it is," he added with a small smile. Sherlock frowned and wriggled his toes just to annoy him.

"Stop squirming! It's hard enough not getting my clothes wet, if you keep moving as well–"

"You're in love with me," Sherlock suddenly said.

John stopped everything he was doing.

"You're helplessly, desperately, pathetically in love with me," Sherlock developed.

"Thanks for the 'pathetically', genius," John groaned as he stood back up. Then he locked his gaze with Sherlock's, and added: "Is that what is frightening you?"

"I'm not frightened."

John sighed and kept washing him absent-mindedly. Washing his abdomen, his thighs...

"Sherlock... Do you think of us as friends?" he asked unanticipatedly.

Bewildered, Sherlock tried to look everywhere but at John, which was rather complicated since the doctor was standing right between his legs.

"Do I have to think of us as something specific and put a name on it?"

John smirked, shaking his head.

"No. That's my point. Whatever you can deduce from observing me should reassure you, not alarm you."

"I'm not–"

"Fine, fine," John cut in preemptively. "Sherlock? Have you noticed you haven't reacted at all even though I've been touching you everywhere for five minutes?"

"What were you expecting? And leave that, I can wash the rest."

"Do you feel comfortable?"

"Not in the least."

John broke into a fit of giggles and pecked his partner's jaw. "Should we make you feel comfortable while you 'wash the rest'?"

Sherlock nodded. John smiled.

"All right."

Slowly, he walked around the naked man and rested his hands on his shoulders, after he'd given Sherlock the shower for him to wash his crotch himself. For some reason, John was very happy that they could be so intimate without sex being involved in any way. He felt truly priviledged to be be allowed such intimacy. Concentrating on the contracted muscles of his partner, he started to knead firmly, intent on making Sherlock relax.

They were both so bad with words, he thought as he massaged his lover's neck. So much was left to be said, to be discussed, and yet neither of them was capable of formulating it properly: Sherlock, mainly because he did not wish to discuss anything in the first place; John, because he was too stupid. Or so he told himself in his musings. There were still so many things he wanted to ask Sherlock, so many things he dared not ask...

_Do you dream of him at night? Jim Moriarty?  
The terrifying, blinding white pleasure – is it a reminiscence of the Basement, or of every time we have sex?  
Do you really like it? Or are you just indulging me?  
Did you feel betrayed by what he did?  
Are you scared he will use me against you again in the future?  
… Are you thinking of getting rid of me so it won't happen again?_

"I considered it."

John was too used to this by now to freeze again and pause his ministrations. Still, he checked, just to be sure:

"What?"

"Breaking all ties with you."

Even though he'd used the past tense, John felt something sink in his chest, and he stiffened visibly.

"It is not my intention," Sherlock specified.

A smile played on John's lips for a second, before he realized what had just been said.

"You would have left me without talking things over first?"

At the question, he thought he saw Sherlock recoil slightly under what he probably considered an accusation. However, his answer was blunt.

"Yes. And don't give me the surprised look."

"I'm not surprised."

"Disappointed?"

John leant in and kissed Sherlock's ear gently. "Nope. A bit irritated."

Sherlock smirked, amused, and without being aware of it, leant into the kiss.

"How is the massage?"

"Making me cold."

"Cold?" John repeated, confused. "As in not aroused?"

"No, John. As in cold, un-warm. Heavy, too."

"You mean relaxed," John protested.

"Heavy," Sherlock said obstinately. He washed the remaining soap away, half-standing to rinse his groin. "John?"

"Mm?" John replied somewhat grumpily, wondering how his touch could wear Sherlock down, and unsure as to the meaning of his words. _Cold. Heavy. _

"Wouldn't you want to have sex with me? I mean, actual sexual intercourse."

John was so astonished by the question he choked on his own saliva and had to turn away to cough.

"Well, that's quite an answer," Sherlock commented gloomily.

"What the... Out of the blue?"

"We could plan it."

"I meant your question!"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Just thought you might be interested."

"What do you mean interes... Oh, screw this."

John stopped his massage and came back in front of his friend.

"Why now?"

"I just thought of it since I was washing my genitals," Sherlock retorted defensively. The reply was so silly John would have laughed in any other circumstances, but right now he really did not feel like it.

"Sherlock, we don't have to if you don't–"

"I just suggested it, John. What does that tell you?" he snarled. His tone was so biting John blinked.

"Why are you so angry?"

"I'm not angry."

"Yes you are."

"I am not!"

"And sad, too."

John came closer. Sherlock shrunk back.

"Sad?" he snorted. "Where did you get such a preposterous impression?"

"You said cold and heavy," John murmured, coming closer and closer – Sherlock stiffened in anticipation. "But your body is warm and relaxed."

Sherlock glowered and bit his bottom lip violently to stifle a pitiful whimper as John straddled him. His whole body tensed, but he automatically loosened up when John's hand came to rest on the nape of his neck.

It was warm. So warm.

Gingerly, no longer caring about getting wet or not, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and enveloped him with his body – not squeezing, not entrapping. Just being there. Surrounding him with a body that did not demand anything. A breathing blanket and pillow all at once.

Something in Sherlock broke, and he did not understand. The warmth he felt did not make sense, nothing he felt made any sense at all: it gave him the impression of being a very small, lost child, and yet John also felt like a child, so small in his arms, sitting on his lap. It was strange and touching, confounding yet familiar in its intimacy. There must have been words, Sherlock thought, words not to describe such a situation, but to be uttered in such a moment.

But he did not know them. They had to exist, for this felt like something every human on earth must have looked for since the dawn of time. But he, Sherlock, did not have them.

"You are the unconditioned," he blurted, memories from university courses on Kant flooding his overly confused brain.

"The _what?_"

Sherlock tried to think of a clear definition.

"The beginning and the end," he said, quite satisfied with how quickly he'd found such a simple, easy to understand explanation.

"...Right. I love you too," John replied with a smile in his voice, not moving an inch.

Sherlock did not hug him back, but rested his brow respectfully against the ever present chest in acknowledgement.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

"Were you serious about the sex?"

A nurse picked her time to enter the room just when John had gathered the courage to ask his question, making him turn crimson instantly. Sherlock simply looked up from the newspaper he'd been pretending to read, and arched an eyebrow. Completely ignoring the young woman who had brought him dinner (or what they called 'dinner' in hospital), he replied:

"You mean penetration? Very serious, of course. Why?"

John wished he could just disappear into the ground, and he tried to gesture to his partner that there was no way they were having this conversation while _she_ was still in the room.

Apparently, Sherlock did not get the message. He furrowed his brow and put the newspaper down.

"Mr. Holmes..." the nurse began, holding the meal-tray in front of him.

"It was just a suggestion, John, considering you are more used to this than me. Well, not this specifically, obviously, but..."

"Mr. Holmes," the nurse insisted.

"I'm not hungry."

"But..."

"Just leave it. He'll eat it later," John cut in, to prevent the situation from degenerating. The nurse put the tray down with an unreadable look and left without a word.

"Naturally if you don't want to we don't have–"

"No, no, that's not it! I... It's just, I have to prepare myself mentally, you know?"

Something flashed in Sherlock's eyes – disquiet, perhaps; definitely hurt. He looked away.

"Of course, I know you're rather used to..."

"Yes, well." John laughed nervously. "I've got to start somewhere, haven't I?"

The moment he'd uttered the words, he heard Moriarty's echo in his mind and paled.

"_But I don't dance. I never have."_

"_Well, you've got to start somewhere, haven't you?"_

"I'm sorry," he said precipitately, standing and walking up to Sherlock as if to protect him in some way.

But he was greeted with a scowl.

"Don't apologize," Sherlock demanded. Then, averting his gaze: "Listen, John, if you don't want me that way, I would perfectly understand, and–"

"No no no, Sherlock, wait–"

"I just suggested it because I thought... But it's really fine if–"

"Sherlock!"

John's sudden outburst made the detective jump and he look up at his friend sheepishly. John sat on the bed close to him, glanced at his hand, wanting to take it, but deciding against it at the last minute because he knew Sherlock wouldn't appreciate the cheesiness. Or being treated like a child, as he said.

"Sherlock, I want you. In any way, in every possible way: I want you."

Sherlock gulped and sent quick glances around like a trapped animal. He never liked this type of conversation – too much trouble, and it really wasn't his area.

"But you must understand," John went on, trying to ignore how uneasy Sherlock appeared to be, "I am used to being the dominant one in sex, and never, never did I imagine that some day I would bottom for another man. You understand, right?"

John was trying, really trying to explain what he felt beyond the awkwardness of the situation. Because he did feel awkward and embarrassed to be discussing such things, with Sherlock of all people. But that was the point. Now it should _always_ be Sherlock, of all people.

"Bottom? But John, you're going to top."

John blinked.

"What?"

"I said: you are going to top," Sherlock repeated impatiently. "_I _will bottom. At least the first time."

"But..."

"I want to."

His tone was so inflexible that John did not dare protest any further. Still, he very much wanted to comprehend this. Coming closer to Sherlock on the mattress, he ended up taking his hand unwittingly. Sherlock did not shake it off.

"You want to?"

The detective rolled his eyes.

"Have you gone deaf, John? Yes, I want to."

"Sherlock, I think it might be a little soon to–"

"I got shot yesterday," he deadpanned. John fell silent, in shock. Content in the result on his partner, Sherlock went on, knowing full well that he was striking a chord: "I might not be so lucky next time."

"Don't say that!" John exclaimed in horror, squeezing his hand.

"But it's true."

Sherlock was well aware his method was rather devious, and John wouldn't approve of it. But he very much wanted to get to the stage of actual intercourse, because supposedly that was the way two people felt the most connected to each other, and any means to get John tied down to him was good enough. Plus, he was curious, too.

"Then why don't you want to top?" John inquired, coming closer every moment without even realizing it.

"Because I want to do it well," Sherlock replied candidly.

John stared.

"You want me to top the first time so you know exactly what _not_ to do when you get to do it the second time?" he reformulated, disbelieving.

Sherlock nodded seriously.

"You're kidding me!"

This time, John burst into laughter whole-heartedly, thinking the timing was just fine. This was so typically _Sherlock_ that he did not see why he should have been surprised in the least. It was true, after all, that he did not have any more knowledge or experience on the matter, and so Sherlock could learn from _his_ mistakes.

Leaning in, John kissed his maddening partner and lovingly ran a hand through his damned alluring curls.

"All right. We'll see to that once we're back in Baker Street."

"Why not tonight?" Sherlock complained, a frown on his adorably dissatisfied face.

"There is no way I'm doing this in a hospital bed. And we need lube, too. It's not like I go around with a bottle in my bag."

"No, you go around with a gun, which is so much more common," Sherlock mumbled, disgruntled. He had thought that surely he'd succeeded in persuading John already, and to have his plans thwarted by such lowly practical details was truly frustrating.

John kissed him again to make up for it, but was pitilessly bitten back. He chuckled, shook his head and stood up.

"I'll go down and get myself a tea at the machine. Do you want anything?"

"Is their tea decent?"

"Not even remotely," John answered with a smirk.

Sherlock sank more deeply into his pillow and sulked.

"Nothing, then."

Swiftly, John stole a peck on his nose and jumped away from the bed before his brooding lover could retaliate.

"That was low!" Sherlock exclaimed as John sneaked out of the room with a grin.

He wondered since when Sherlock's insufferable manners had become _cute_ to him. At first they were irritating (and they still were sometimes), then he'd just got used to it. But now, irritating Sherlock was part of the fun of everyday life. Perhaps because it was reassuring to have him whining and sulking, rather than not saying a word, lost in his own world.

As John bent down to pick up his filled plastic cup, he noticed a man had come up behind him, and for some reason he couldn't quite explain, his scent seemed familiar, although John could not place it. He stood back up, and turned to leave.

But coming face to face with the man, he could suddenly place him very well.

His grip tightened on the cup, and his gaze hardened as the other smiled pleasantly. If John could have remained uncertain of his identity from his face, his behaviour left him with no doubts.

"Good evening, Dr. Watson," he greeted in a honeyed tone.

John glared. What had Moriarty called him again? Oh yes. _Sebastian_.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

_tbc_


	24. Exposing

**.**

.

.

* * *

**Chapter 24: Exposing**

* * *

.

.

"Good evening, Dr. Watson," Sebastian greeted in a honeyed tone.

John glared.

"What do you want?" he inquired between gritted teeth.

The man gave him a falsely hurt pout and shook his head.

"Why are you being so aggressive? I just came to have a little chat," he protested. He was quite good at mimicking his master, John thought gloomily. "And to invite you over," Sebastian added with a smile that did not bode well.

John's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on the plastic cup he was holding and his gaze turned to ice.

"Where is Moriarty?"

"You'll see him if you come with me."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I'm afraid I'll have to use the gun that's in my inner pocket."

They locked eyes; the staring contest did not last ten seconds.

"You would shoot me in the middle of a hospital? With all those witnesses?"

Sebastian snorted.

"Don't be stupid. I wouldn't shoot _you_. I'd just shoot everyone else."

John glowered, but reckoned that he did not have much choice. He put the cup down on the dustbin that was next to the vending machine, purposefully not putting it in, and nodded curtly. He truly hoped Sherlock would get the message that he would return, and that the detective would not come after him. The last thing John wanted was for his friend to be in the presence of that maniac again.

He only regretted he did not have his handgun with him, but knew that if the occasion presented itself, he would need no weapon to squeeze the life out of Jim Moriarty. Perhaps Sebastian saw in John's eyes the insane determination of one who wants to take revenge. He smirked amusedly as he held the door for the ex-soldier, and went out after him.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

Sherlock was starting to wonder why John wasn't coming back. Before the Basement incident, he might have thought that his friend had just encountered a very pretty nurse; but now, the consulting detective was much more inclined to start worrying early, and to believe his dear archenemy had something to do with the doctor being late.

At first, he told himself off and resisted the urge to go and check on his partner. He had put his own clothes back on after the shower, so roaming around the hospital wearing that horrible gown wasn't the issue: but he did not want John to think that he could panick so easily, even though almost a week had passed since the traumatizing event. Admittedly, John, being a doctor and having served in the army, was well aware that trauma did not last just one week. Sherlock, however, wanted to do nothing that could remind his friend of what he himself considered to be an unbearably stupid frailty, and so waited a good twenty minutes before finally snapping and leaving his room to look for his flatmate.

When he saw John wasn't at the vending machine, he frowned in annoyance.

When he saw the plastic cup on the dustbin, his annoyance shattered, leaving only a sense of dread.

_John_.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

"Johnny boy!" the hateful lilting voice chimed. "I am so glad that you've accepted my invitation! I've missed you, you know."

"Well, I haven't missed _you_," John replied coldly.

"Aw, don't be so tense. Why don't you take a seat? Oops, they're all taken already. You can sit on the bed, though."

John's eyes turned to slits. Of course Moriarty would have the twisted idea of receiving him in the room he had been sleeping in with Sherlock during their stay at Ridling Thorpe Manor. As to how the madman had managed to get access to the house when such tragic events had just taken place in it and it was obviously off limits to the public, John had no idea.

"I'm fine standing."

"But I want you to sit."

John was about to snarl _"Well, too bad"_ when Sebastian, who was standing behind his employer, nonchalantly pointed his gun at him. John's gaze hardened in cold anger, but he sat down on the bed stiffly. Moriarty grinned.

"That's a good boy. So where were we? Ah, right, we hadn't even begun!"

_He's a complete wacko_, John thought. Of course he'd been aware of it for quite a while, but sometimes Moriarty appeared to be even more psychotic than clever, and that was when he was the most terrifying. A clever, evil man was dangerous enough, but a clever, evil _and_ psychotic man could certainly cause much more damage.

"What do you want?" John asked callously.

Jim gave him a creepy smile.

"Just to have a little chat."

John refrained from rolling his eyes, definitely thinking that _Sebastian_ really knew the consulting criminal very well. It would have been funny, in any other situation.

"About what?"

"Oh, you know, our common interest."

"I don't see how we could have any," John deadpanned, quite honest.

"Why, really? What about our only consulting detective in the world?"

He grinned again, and John had never wanted to smash his face more than in this instant.

"Ooh, you're getting angry already, even though I haven't said anything yet. But you're the one who's to do the talking. So? What news?"

"We're doing well, thank you very much," John snapped back.

"Well that's a bit vague, isn't? How broken is he? Is he very traumatized?" Moriarty pressed on, a childlike glimmer in his eyes, just like a kid trying to get out of his parents what they got him for Christmas. It made John feel sick in the stomach.

"You..." he started, shaking with rage as he surged to his feet.

"Tut tut, calm down, Johnny. You wouldn't want Sherlock to find you shot dead in the room in which you must have spent some lovely moments together."

"You're disgusting."

"Am I?" Jim wondered, his tone tinged with mock surprise. "What about you? I thought you would thank me, you know, for having reduced Sexy to such a mess he'd fall right into your arms. And pants, incidentally."

Words were failing John. He had to muster all his self-control not to jump on the consulting criminal and choke him to death. But Moriarty was right: nothing was worth making Sherlock feel like he was responsible for John's death.

So the ex-soldier just stood there, trembling with a fury he had not thought himself capable of feeling.

Moriarty grinned, enjoying his dominance, and began pacing around the doctor like a predator circling its prey.

"So, is he any good? Most likely a quick learner, I bet. He must be so endearing, so keen to please you..."

"What game are you playing?" John growled threateningly, staring right in front of him, ignoring the madman's little theatrics. Or trying to.

"Game? I wouldn't play any game with you, pet. You're nowhere near smart enough."

John took a deep breath as his fists tightened, his knuckles turning white.

"So? How does it feel to have him all for yourself? Just where you want him, when you want him?"

"Shut up, just shut up."

"Is that a way to talk to your benefactor? Honestly, Johnny boy, you should be grateful to me."

"Grateful?" John echoed, disbelieving. "You tortured my best friend!"

"Which resulted in you finally being able to shag him," Moriarty pointed out innocently.

This time John couldn't take it and grabbed him forcefully by the collar of his shirt. Jim smiled.

"Don't be stupid. Just think of his face if he finds your brain splattered around when he arrives."

"Why would he come?"

"Oh, John, John, John..." Moriarty shook his head, putting his shirt back in place as John let go of him. "Do you really believe he's become such an idiot that he won't be able to deduce what's going on? That he won't find us?"

John glared.

"What are you trying to do?"

"You know, just while away the time. Isn't that what we all do?"

"Not in such a sick way."

"And who do you think is the sickest of all in this story? But you surprised me, John, you really surprised me... I didn't think you had it in you."

"Had what?"

Moriarty's eyes gleamed madly.

"The guts to take full advantage of this situation. It was quite clever, of course, but precisely..."

"I really don't care what you think," John interrupted firmly. "You're pathetic. You have such an empty, boring life that you must mess with other people's just to shake your boat. You like feeling all powerful, like the puppet-master pulling the strings, but in fact you are completely dependent on those you play with, because without toys, you'd just go mad. You actually _need_ other people to shake off the boredom. You're like a kid who doesn't have friends nor a family to love him, completely alone in a room full of toys he can only use until he breaks them out of bitterness."

Moriarty's eyes widened, but soon his bewilderment was replaced by an expression of sheer glee.

"Ooh, you've really become interesting, Johnny! Still all righteous, which is kind of weird, considering the situation, but–"

"Is there anything you wanted to ask? I don't have all night," John cut in again, tired of the whole thing. Most of all, he did not want Sherlock to come here. If he could never see Jim Moriarty again, that would be for the best.

"Possessive, aren't we?" Jim smirked, resuming his circular pacing. "Did you have him yet? Or is it the other way around?"

"It really is none of your business."

"Umm, not yet, then. But tell me, doesn't it bother you?"

"What?"

"That he is doing this only to please you. Surely you must have realized by now."

John's eyes sent him daggers, but his lips remained tightly shut.

"I thought you'd still be the romantic type, even if you're clearly taking advantage of him... So, did you manage to make him tell you that he loves you?"

At this, John stared, not believing how weird this conversation was. Obviously, Moriarty was trying to mess with his mind. Still, John had never thought he would ever hear _that_ kind of thing from Sherlock's nemesis.

"I don't need it," he replied simply.

Jim blinked.

"You don't need him to love you?" he reformulated. "Oh dear, you are even more cynical than I thought!"

"I don't need to hear him say it," John rephrased coldly.

The consulting criminal tilted his head to the side in ostensible confusion.

"So you believe he does love you? _Ooh._ Ha ha, I get it now! You really are twisted, Johnny, veeery twisted. I like it. Of course you would have made yourself believe it, so as to have a clear conscience, wouldn't you?"

John held up his gaze. Before his eyes images were flashing, fragments of never to be forgotten memories: Sherlock dropping the gun and coming to embrace him from behind, playing the Double concerto over his skin; Sherlock eating toast and drinking some horrible mixture to put on weight just because John had said he should; Sherlock rushing to take on a case he'd just refused because John had snapped at him; Sherlock using the belt so John would stop feeling bad about Mycroft's snide words; Sherlock having recourse to all necessary means to force a good night's sleep on John; Sherlock trying to make up for his manipulative attitude by letting John have his way with him (which was, in fact, only more manipulation; but John loved him for it nonetheless); Sherlock resting his brow against his chest as if John's heart was enough to support his great brain...

_You are the unconditioned. _

John barely repressed a small smile from playing on his lips. His voice was clear and steady as he looked into Moriarty's eyes and calmly repeated:

"I don't need to hear him say it."

Jim stared, then broke into a fit of demented giggles.

"Oh boy, you're so funny! Quite sure of yourself, too."

John did not find it necessary to tell Moriarty that he wasn't sure of anything, and did not expand on the subject. He doubted the maniac would ever understand why it didn't matter whether Sherlock was in love with him or not. As long as he was needed, and as long as he could help, John would stay, and give Sherlock whatever he wanted.

"Dedicated, aren't we?" Jim drawled, interrupting his thoughts.

John shrugged.

"Of course."

Just then he heard footsteps rushing up the stairs and along the corridor. His blood froze in his veins and his eyes widened in apprehension. Moriarty's face split into the widest grin.

"Oh, here comes our guest of honour. Seb?"

On Jim's notice, Sebastian suddenly jumped on John and pinned him to the bed before the doctor could realize what was going on.

"What the–"

The door was slammed open, and a breathless Sherlock burst into the room before John even finished his sentence. The ex-soldier glared, and changed the words he had in mind, this time addressing his friend.

"What the hell are you doing here, Sherlock? Get out, now!"

He knew his words were harsh, and considering his current position, could be construed in a terrible way; but that was precisely the point. He had to make Sherlock run away from here before Moriarty could do anything to him.

Sherlock, however, was not traumatized enough to be so easily duped. Locking his grave eyes with John's for a second, he soon shifted his attention to his archenemy.

"I am rather offended you didn't invite me to this little party," he said.

Jim beamed up at him.

"Sherlock! It is such a pleasure to see you again."

Sherlock did not answer, and instead fixed his gaze on John and Sebastian, analysing the situation and remembering each and every feature of the man for future use. Probably to kill him in the most painful way.

"Oh, don't glare like that, it doesn't suit you. Johnny boy and I were just having a little chat, weren't we, John?"

John did not reply, but looked up at Sherlock again. He did not dare move, for he knew Sebastian was armed; and even though Sherlock had surely brought John's gun, a sniper would always be quicker than the consulting detective. So John intensified his gaze, trying to convey the desperate message: _Please go. _

But Sherlock would buy none of it. Ignoring John, he addressed Moriarty:

"I see. Well, if you're done, we'll be taking our leave."

"I don't think so. But please take a seat! You can listen while we finish our little conversation."

Sherlock stared down at his nemesis icily, and read in his eyes that there was no way to avoid this.

"Tell your man to get off him right now, and I will sit down."

"Ooh, power play? But Sherly, dear, you don't have the power to request anything from me, you know. Though you could try begging, if you'd like."

At this point Sherlock took out the gun and aimed it straight at Moriarty's brow.

"Tell him to get off," he repeated, weighing each word.

Jim sighed. Sebastian got the message, took out his own gun, and pressed it against John's temple. Moriarty looked up into Sherlock's eyes.

"So what do you think? Is killing me worth losing him? Sebbie here won't care if you shoot me in the head or not. I gave him the order to kill Johnny boy if you tried anything, and he will. _He_ is a good pet, you see. He listens."

But Sherlock did not back off, and insisted:

"Then order him to get off."

"Why? Do you think your pet might enjoy the contact too much?"

A flash of anger traversed Sherlock's darkened pupils and he gritted his teeth as he pressed the gun closer to his enemy's forehead. Jim grinned.

"I really am happy to see you, you know," he said, and from his face Sherlock was sure he wasn't lying.

Ignoring the gun against his forehead, Moriarty turned towards John and resumed their discussion. Apparently, he did not believe for a second that Sherlock would shoot, and did not care whether he kept holding his weapon or not. _As harmless as a toy_, his indifference seemed to say.

"I had been wondering, John, how come you could do it with a man. You know, you being straight and all... So did you discover a new facet of your personality? Did you realize that you actually enjoyed being subdued?"

John's eyes widened and Sherlock growled:

"I really am going to shoot you."

"No you're not," Jim retorted in his sing-song voice, his tone assured. Then to John: "We could reverse the roles, if you'd like. We could see how you dance with a man's cock up your arse, and Sherlock can enjoy the show just like you could enjoy his little strip dance last time. So what do you say? It's only fair, don't you think?"

"Shoot him," John said.

Everyone in the room seemed to freeze. John turned his face towards Sherlock and repeated sternly: "Shoot him."

Sherlock's heart missed a beat. He stared at his friend, wide-eyed, completely lost. The two utterances all at once were just too much. Moriarty's threat, and John's reaction: the latter basically amounting to him saying _"I'd rather die"_.

But when he saw Sherlock's shattered gaze, John knew he couldn't ask this of him. Not that Sherlock wouldn't do it: he would, and then he'd be forced to watch as Sebastian put a bullet in John's head in return. John wasn't sure whether Sherlock would take less badly his flatmate being raped – this time, quite concretely – before his eyes. But if by any chance they could both make it alive out of here, John would be there to do everything in his power to convince Sherlock that he wasn't responsible, and that it was all fine.

The ex-soldier felt despicable for having considered his pride before even thinking of Sherlock. What was rape in the face of the life he would lead after John had died, killed before his very eyes, and because of him? So the doctor changed his mind, and stifling all protests from what he had left of his self-esteem, corrected:

"No, don't do it. I don't want to die."

They all stared at him for a second – Sebastian, obviously because he couldn't look anywhere else, in his position; Sherlock and Jim, because such a reversal in John's stance obviously wasn't believable as such, and in one second, one little second, John could almost hear the machinery in their brains working out his words, and deducing the truth of the situation.

Jim's face cracked into a wide, wide grin.

"Oh dear, he really would do anything for you," he told Sherlock. "No wonder you want to keep him. So, which of his pleas will you listen to?"

But Sherlock had regained some composure and replied evenly:

"None."

"None?" Jim repeated in surprise. Perhaps this time, it wasn't faked.

"None," Sherlock confirmed, the beginning of a smirk forming on his lips. "Because you won't do it."

"Ha! And what makes you say that?"

Sherlock put down his gun and started pacing around Moriarty, very much like Jim had done with John just a while before.

"You'd be bored," Sherlock whispered, relaxing as he slowly but surely put the situation under control. "You won't do it, because you would be bored without me."

From the bed, John stared, not having a clue what was going on. He couldn't see the link between the situation they were in, and Sherlock's words. At all.

Moriarty on the other hand seemed to get it very well. His smile widened and he burst out laughing.

"Oh, you're a funny one, Sherlock, a funny one! Where did you get such confidence? Is it from manipulating your pet?"

Sherlock glared at him, and John looked up, a frown on his face; seeing that he had their attention, Jim went on tauntingly:

"It is only natural you'd use the same means on him as on Pavlov's dog. He must be a very good pet, though, for I haven't seen any sign that you've mistreated him. Or is your method slightly different? Getting him addicted to pleasure, maybe. Well, to the pleasure only _you_ can provide him with. You are smart enough to do that right, actually. You're so good at observing and deducing people that there is no reason you shouldn't know exactly what he desires even before _he_ knows it. That's quite handy. You know his mind, you know his heart, and by now you must have become familiar with his body as well. And so you know perfectly what to do to get him addicted to you and have him dance in the palm of your hand. It is all chemistry after all, isn't it?"

Sherlock had stopped pacing and John's attention had shifted from Moriarty to his friend, watching his face closely. The detective wasn't denying it. In fact, dear old Jim seemed to have hit right home.

"I'm sure it is highly reassuring to hold such powers. At least your brain allows you to put him on a leash and only give him an impression of freedom. You're good: that's how dogs should be tamed and trained."

Sherlock did not dare look at John, and all his aplomb from a minute before had crumbled to pieces. He still had to get John out of here, however, and so he tried to collect himself.

But John had had enough and was quicker to react. Without warning he hit Sebastian's groin with his knee and pushed him back. Soon he was standing, the sniper just a few steps away, aiming his gun at him. John ignored him and turned to Moriarty instead.

"If you're done talking, I think we'll leave."

Moriarty pouted and said to Seb:

"See? I told you we should have handcuffed him to the bedpost."

Even though the remark must have been purely coincidental, Sherlock still paled with rage. But John's behaviour had snapped him out of his self-deprecation, and some assurance was back in his eyes.

"Are you interested, Sherlock? We can always get the handcuffs now and still have him dance. I'm sure Seb would be perfect for the job," Jim offered with a sick smile.

John sighed in exasperation.

"If that's what you want, let's just get on with it so it's done quickly," he snapped, excessively irritated with the situation.

"Oh, aren't you a bit too keen? It seems you haven't taken good care of him, Sherly," Moriarty remarked teasingly. Then to John, his tone jubilant: "And who said anything about it being quick? You had the leisure to enjoy Sexy's show for quite a while, after all. It's only fair you should return the favour, don't you think?"

John had to conjure up with all his strength the image of Sherlock broken beyond repair if he were to be killed tonight. He closed his eyes.

"Fine. Then let's–"

"Enough," Sherlock cut in sharply. He fixed his gaze on John and said: "Come here."

John blinked, confused. What was he on about?

"Let's leave," Sherlock developed, as John didn't seem to have any idea of what was happening.

They exchanged a look. _Trust me_, Sherlock's eyes seemed to say. John breathed in deeply and complied, ignoring the click of the gun in his back, ready to shoot any time.

But he made it to Sherlock's side without anything happening. His gaze never left his friend, and he did not even spare a glance at Moriarty, who was standing right next to Sherlock.

"Aw, leaving already?" Jim whined. "I'm sure you'd have enjoyed the show," he told Sherlock, who glowered down at him. "Oh well, I bet you've got something as good in mind to entertain him... You'll thank me another time! Do you think I should become a consulting therapist for challenged couples?"

As Moriarty's laughter filled the air, Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and dragged him out of the room, down the corridor, down the staircase, out of the house and into the cab that had been waiting patiently outside, his meter on, because he had been told to do so.

John was in shock and just let himself be led, only snapping out of it once the car had pulled away.

"What just happened?" he asked.

Sherlock did not answer. After a moment of silence, John went on:

"Why did he let us go?"

"Because he'd done what he wanted already," Sherlock replied grimly.

"He had?" John said, still not believing his luck – if one could call it luck to have just been messed up verbally and not physically. But no matter how horrible their conversation had been, John could not help but feel relieved that he'd escaped _rape_.

"He wouldn't have done it," Sherlock said.

"How can you be so sure?"

The detective looked away, turning his face to the window.

"He wants to keep playing with me; so he cannot break you beyond repair, nor can he kill you. He might, if he ever gets tired of me. But in all likelihood, he will never find anyone as challenging as I am, and he would rather keep it that way. If he wants to put an end to our game one day, it will mean he is ready to put an end to his own life as well as mine."

John stared, unsure of the meaning of Sherlock's words. Moriarty would not attempt to kill Sherlock before he was ready to die himself? What in the world did that mean? But most of all, such reasoning meant that if John were to die, Sherlock would die as well; that if John were to be defiled and broken, he would be too, and would never want to continue the Work, no matter how important it was to him. He would stop everything, and be so broken himself he would no longer be entertaining to Moriarty. John shivered.

"Sherlock. Was it true? What he said about your... method."

The air became so heavy in the car that Sherlock thought he would suffocate. He did not, however, and keeping his eyes on the darkness of the countryside passing by out of the window, simply uttered one word, which he knew would make the tension in the air finally crush down on him:

"Yes."

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

_tbc_


	25. Kneeling

**.**

.

.

* * *

**Chapter 25: Kneeling  
**

* * *

.

.

The rest of the ride had been quiet. John had thought they would discuss everything once they were back in the hospital room, but the staff made a fuss about Sherlock having left without prior notice, and the moment he was back into bed the detective pretended to be fast asleep. John repressed a sigh and told himself they would talk the next day.

That did not happen either. At dawn, Sherlock was ready to go, and they took the first train to London. They didn't have one moment of privacy that would allow them to talk, and when they finally arrived at the flat, Sherlock left almost right away, saying he had to go shopping. It surprised John so much that he did not even have the reaction to hold him back or follow him. Sherlock never went shopping; the recourse to such an absurd excuse only evidenced how adamant he was to avoid any kind of conversation.

John panicked a bit after an hour of not seeing his friend, wondering if he could have done anything stupid. Just when he could no longer take it and had started typing a text to check if everything was all right, Sherlock walked back in and headed straight to the corridor leading to his room. This time, John jumped to his feet and stopped him, grabbing his uninjured arm gently, and forcing the detective to look at him.

"Hey. How long are you going to run away from this?"

Sherlock's face remained inscrutable.

"Can I take a shower first?"

The question was so unexpected John blinked, at a loss. Then he paled. Had Sherlock felt sullied all over again just from standing in the same room as Moriarty? Did he now consider himself dirty?

The taller man must have caught the flash of concern in his partner's eyes, for he clarified:

"It's just a shower, John. I'll be right back."

Which also meant: don't come with me. I want to shower alone.

John stifled the urge to hug Sherlock then and there, and never let him out of his sight again. Instead, he nodded, straightening up unwittingly, the military stance back. Sherlock gave him a small, small smile and disappeared into the bathroom.

John noticed he hadn't even taken off his coat.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

As the hot water poured down on him, Sherlock shivered. He had spent the whole night trying to process what had happened – this new confrontation with the consulting criminal, the role of Sebastian, what John had been told – and to draw the consequences. It was devastating.

First of all, there was the fact that John had been kidnapped right under his eyes, or almost, without him being able to prevent it.

Then once he'd joined the little party, Sherlock had been shocked into his own powerlessness. Moriarty was wrong, Sherlock did have the power for powerplay: he could use his own importance in the madman's eyes as a means of dissuasion. Yet it remained the case that if Jim had wanted John raped, or anything else for that matter, he could have had it happen. Sherlock had been well aware of his trick. But John hadn't.

The ex-soldier's first reaction was to choose death over such a humiliation, but then after having seen Sherlock's face, he'd changed his mind and seemed to have concluded that rape was not too high a price to pay if he could still be with Sherlock.

And that, the detective found intolerable. That John would kill a murderer to save his life or that he would be willing to give up his own life to save Sherlock's was still coherent as far as John's personality was concerned: he was brave, had strong moral principles and one could logically deduce that he would prioritize a comrade's life over his own. This was in line with what he was: a hero, whose sense of duty and honour took precedence over his own life.

John's first reaction had been in accordance with this portrayal. But not the second. The second showed how much he had changed – how much he was _willing_ to change – just for Sherlock's sake. Not as a comrade, but as Sherlock.

And then Moriarty had to go and tell him what Sherlock's true intentions were. It made the detective wonder what the criminal could have possibly told his friend before Sherlock even got there. What sick games had he been playing on his mind? Sherlock had been too scared to ask John until now, but knew he would eventually have to find out.

The most urgent issue, however, was that John now knew what Sherlock had been doing through his 'experiments': namely, tying him down to him in the worst possible way.

Sherlock's arm was hurting. He ignored it, only careful not to pour water on his bandage. The water was burning now, but Sherlock was still cold, so cold he didn't know where it was coming from: he couldn't even feel the warmth of the vapor surrounding him.

He never intended to treat John as anything other than a human being. Sherlock had never questioned his right to manipulate people, as it was always for the greater good (that is, solving the case at hand), and not out of pure sadism. Nor would he feel any joy basking in his own superiority over others and exploiting their weaknesses for the sake of it. It had just never interested Sherlock. He could not derive any pleasure from it, and that was one of the many reasons he did not get along with his brother.

But there had been no case this time. No need to drug John to test a theory. No need to create a situation in which he would forget his psychosomatic limp, thus getting rid of it for good. There had been no greater cause – it had all been for Sherlock, and for him alone. The awareness of this was so sharp he did not even think of denying the fact when Moriarty so deviously pointed out to the doctor his lover's "method".

Yet this wasn't even the worse part of it. Admittedly, there had been a goal (getting John addicted to him), and a most selfish one. But even more despicable was the fact that Sherlock had enjoyed it.

He shivered under the shower, and tried to pull himself together. But it was true. He had revelled in John's helplessness, had relished it dearly every time the ex-soldier had completely lost it under Sherlock's ministrations: it had been so reassuring, so warm and calming, restoring his own confidence. Giving him the impression that the situation was under control. And it had been, to some extent.

But not anymore.

Sherlock stopped the water and stood there for a moment, letting the iciness wash over him.

John always thought of him first, but Sherlock had never thought of John before himself. John had broken himself down, had humiliated himself by lapdancing for Sherlock, exposing every corner of his soul, just to save him. He had accepted the experimenting, accepted the risk to be played with. He had said he would stop touching Sherlock if Sherlock did not like it, and had considered the option of the detective doing whatever he wanted to him, but John not even being allowed to touch him. He had even suggested they stopped having sex altogether, if Sherlock did not want it, and said he would deal with his needs himself; that is, he wouldn't go to someone else.

Ultimately, John had even accepted to be _raped_, just because he had seen the grief in Sherlock's eyes at the idea of being responsible for his death – or just of him dying. He had accepted a life as a rape victim – and to him, being physically raped by a man surely was nothing less than what Sherlock had to go through in the Basement – because it would mean a life by Sherlock's side; because thus John could still live to love and protect him.

And all this time, what had Sherlock done for John? Nothing.

Everything he'd done had come second to his one aim, had been part of the means to reach that goal: keep John by his side as long as possible. He had never pondered whether this could be profitable to John or not. He had not examined whether it could destroy him, or hurt him in any way. John had seemed happy enough, and so it was all fine.

It hadn't even crossed Sherlock's mind that he was doing something "bad". He could so easily see right through everyone that manipulating people had always been second nature to him. And since he never desired anything for himself, he had never felt the need to contemplate his motives before acting: it was all part of a logical, rational attitude that dealt with mysterious situations in order to elucidate them.

As he dried his body, Sherlock wondered for a moment if what he had planned to do after the shower was not, deep down, still a means to get John to stay. The doubt almost prompted him to give up the idea and to throw John out immediately; but there was still something to be done, something very important.

For once, there was another goal, a greater one, that came before 'keeping John'. Sherlock still remembered his friend's words just before the Pool incident: "You'd be so happy together." John felt left out when he considered Sherlock's and Moriarty's superiority, and he may even have developed an inferiority complex. Jim always humiliated him, and always scorned him; calling him pet, and this time, even treating him like a dog.

There was no way John could not have suffered from it, all the more so as he must have felt betrayed by Sherlock, and terribly hurt to hear the truth from the consulting criminal of all people. Another genius, who knew something about Sherlock – and John – that John hadn't even noticed, even though he'd been the one closest to Sherlock all this time. How could he not feel like an idiot?

What had left Sherlock truly aghast, however, had been John's lack of reaction. He'd thought for sure that he would be furious, and quite rightly so. That he would snap and shout and ask him why he had done it, whether he had only been playing with him all this time, if he felt better now that he had succeeded in fooling him...

But John hadn't said a word. He hadn't left, either. So Sherlock could only find one explanation: he must still be in shock. It must have been more hurtful than insulting. He must be more broken than indignant.

And so Sherlock did not think he could be forgiven. But he was determined to convince John that he was worth a thousand Sherlocks and a thousand Moriartys all together.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

John had turned his laptop on in an attempt to distract himself so he would stop pacing the room waiting for Sherlock. He was worried beyond words. The shower was taking such a long time, but he did not dare go and knock on the door, for fear of crowding his partner's space too much. It was so hard to draw a line and know when he was being more oppressive than supportive.

When he heard the door of the bathroom open, he could not hold back a sigh of relief, but kept his eyes on the screen pointedly. It would be better if he let Sherlock come to him, rather than jump on him at the first occasion to force him into a conversation he was so obviously reluctant to have.

Consequently, John did not truly see Sherlock before he was standing right in front of him – or rather, kneeling down at his feet. Dropping the pretence, John pushed his laptop to the side and looked at his friend.

And froze.

Not only was Sherlock kneeling before him: he was also stark naked, except for a spiked collar around his pearly neck, attached to a leash he was holding out to John. His other hand was extended as well, presenting a bottle of lube. His face was unreadable.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you–"

"You're not a dog," the detective interrupted.

John's eyes widened. Was that what this was all about?

"Oh God, Sherlock–"

"No, listen to me. You're not a dog, and I never intended to treat you like one."

"Sherlock–"

"But what he said was true."

John fell quiet and searched the pupils of his friend. Sherlock did not bat an eyelid, simply going on.

"I manipulated you so you would become addicted to me: my body, my touch... Whatever worked out. I observed you, deduced your kinks and fantasies, explored your body always with the intention to control it and use pleasure to make you dependent on me. So you'd come back for more."

John's gaze was piercing him, but Sherlock did not waver. This was his punishment. He had no right to wallow in self-pity: he'd brought this upon himself, after all.

"But I never considered you as anything other than a man. I never thought of you as a... a pet."

He almost spat the word, and averted his eyes in disgust.

"No matter what he said, no matter what I did... Your worth is far beyond the concept of 'clever'." He forced himself to look back up straight into John's eyes. "You are the best man I have ever met. You are the only hero I have ever met." _And I am certainly not one.  
_

But he did not utter the words. It may have sounded like a plea, as if he were asking for sympathy. And Sherlock wanted none.

"I won't manipulate you tonight," he said, never unlocking their gazes. Then, in a definite tone: "Do whatever you want."

John did.

Sherlock did not see the punch coming, and it sent him straight to the ground. He breathed in deeply, trying not to gasp, because whatever was coming, he deserved it. But when he looked up John was gone. He came back a second later from Sherlock's room with a sheet and a blanket, gathering the detective in it very gently, holding his bandaged arm before bringing him to the couch. Sherlock wondered idly why he hadn't brought him to the bedroom, if he liked the sheet and blanket so much.

John then took the lube from him, but put it down on the table. He reached towards Sherlock, who did not recoil or wince. He just waited for John's gesture, accepting it already whatever it was – be it a punch or a strike. John's hand came to rest on his throat, and Sherlock made an effort not to close his eyes. He was stunned when John simply unleashed him, putting the collar away.

_Well. Whatever __he wants_, Sherlock thought.

John stood up and went to the fridge, coming back with ice. Sherlock watched in silence. His mind must have been a mess already, for he did not deduce the doctor's intention before the ice was pressed to his face gently, where John's fist had hit him.

"I'm sorry I punched you. But you deserved it," he commented.

Sherlock did not answer. Something in John's eyes shattered, and he buried his face in the blanket, embracing his friend wordlessly.

John's consternation was so overwhelming it took him a while to find his voice again.

"Did you think I needed you to do something like that to know that I was a man and not a dog?" he tried to ask playfully, failing miserably. Then, since his friend was not responding: "Sherlock, please talk to me."

"I did."

John shook his head.

"Is that why you took a shower? To prepare yourself so I could have my way with you? Do you really think of me as such a man?"

Sherlock shivered, a flash of sheer fear traversing his troubled blue eyes. He hadn't meant to offend John.

"I wasn't trying to add insult to injury," he stumbled.

"Please, Sherlock..."

John wrapped his arms more securely around him, but not enough to make him feel trapped in any way, and sat back to look him in the eye.

"Don't let him break you again."

"He didn't break me! All he said was the truth. Only the truth..."

"Shh... It's all right."

"Of course it's not all right!" Sherlock bellowed, exploding at last. He pushed John back. "Did you even hear what he said?"

John's gaze hardened, and Sherlock faltered.

"I hear you. And I heard him."

"Then how can you not be angry?"

"I am."

Sherlock just stared, at a loss.

"I'm angry that you thought what I couldn't deal with was the humiliation of having been manipulated. You should know I'm used to that by now. I live with you, after all."

Sherlock squirmed, looking away to hide his confusion. Gently, John made him look at him again.

"Do you think you were the only one thinking all night? I've been thinking, trying to understand your reasons."

"John–"

"Just let me finish. You must understand, I was more hurt than irritated. Do you understand why?"

At the admission, Sherlock felt so ashamed he wondered how he could have ever thought that physical shame was the worse to deal with. This was so much more unbearable than being ashamed of his own body.

"Because you trusted me and I manipulated you," he let out in a low voice.

"No."

Sherlock blinked._ No_?

John took a deep breath and pressed Sherlock's hand in his.

"Because it means _you_ do not trust _me_," he explained.

The consulting detective turned this in his mind for a second before grasping the meaning of it.

"You do not trust me when I say I will never leave you," John went on.

"Every single lover in history has made that ridiculous vow!" Sherlock snapped. "It is basic romantic rhetoric. I'm not saying you do not believe in your own words, but no one can reasonably promise such a thing. Uttering it does mean something – namely, that presently you are quite infatuated with me – but it doesn't tell us anything about the future."

"But Sherlock, don't you know me by now? Can't you tell that I'm not lying?"

"You're not getting the point."

Sherlock felt his hand become colder and colder the more John pressed it. This was not getting anywhere.

"Look, John... I think it would be better if you moved out."

"And I think you're just scared and it's fear talking."

Sherlock stared, incredulous. John brought his other hand to wrap it around Sherlock's, and started to rub it so as to warm it up.

"You're scared because for once your deducing skills cannot tell you for sure that I won't leave. In fact, statistically speaking, you are right to say that very few couples remain as such until the end of their life. You're scared because you cannot be certain, nor can you just believe me blindly: you're not one for faith, or even for trust. So you did the only thing that seemed rationally, scientifically likely to ensure I stayed with you for as long as possible. Chemistry, was it?"

The detective looked away, unable to bear John's gaze on him. With a gentleness and a tenderness Sherlock was not ready to face, John slowly sneaked under the blanket and embraced him, pressing their bodies closer, nuzzling up to him. He let the smell of Sherlock surround him, rested his head on the pale chest and let his heartbeats hammer the proof of the detective's life into his very flesh. And as he did so, he thought this man was worth all sacrifices.

"It's fine," he said finally, rocking their bodies together slightly as he stroked his partner's back. "You can keep doing it, since it reassures you."

After the first few seconds of shock, Sherlock felt himself suddenly fill with bemusement and indignation all at once. He choked, not knowing what to say, no longer even knowing what to do. John kept caressing his back soothingly, as if understanding the wrecking passions that were flooding him.

"How can you...?" Sherlock finally asked in a croaked voice.

"I'm already addicted to you, Sherlock. Addicted to the marrow. But it's true you're not psychic, and even you can't deduce the future for sure. So, if it reassures you..."

Sherlock did not know what to say. He thought John was being stupid, so blind, so foolishly _in love_ with him... John kissed his chest and said:

"If it reassures you, I'm ready to go along with it."

"You do realize I'm denying your freedom as a person."

"No. I realize you are so scared of my freedom as a person that you want to train me so I will physically, necessarily be dependent on you."

"Exactly!"

"But you enjoyed it, right?"

Sherlock stiffened in the embrace and the air caught in his throat.

"You did enjoy it – touching, being touched – beyond just this crazy goal of yours, right?"

"I did..." Sherlock confessed brokenly.

"Then it's all fine," concluded John.

Sherlock did not comprehend how it could possibly be fine. He felt exhausted and overly thrown off.

John on the other hand understood perfectly the state his friend was in, as well as his mindset. He should have guessed Sherlock would react in such a way to the trauma. The detective did not even realize that his attitude betrayed his need for John, the desire to possess him all for himself, and to never let him go: something which was, in fact, much more romantic than any rhetoric John may have used. Sherlock did not understand the concept of love, so eternal love would definitely not make sense to him: but means to make John's presence by his side last as long as possible did make sense.

True, John still did not like Sherlock's "method"– at all. He wanted them to be equals, so they could share the same world; to understand and to trust each other. The fact that Sherlock felt the need to manipulate him only showed how insecure he truly was. But knowing that Sherlock's ultimate goal had been to keep him by his side, John could not help but feel warm inside. With time, he hoped Sherlock would come to realize he did not even need such means.

The only thing Sherlock was presently realizing, though, was that John had no idea of what he was doing. Or rather, he had all the elements and was well aware of the situation, but still acted stupidly. It did not make any sense.

"You were so angry when I experimented on you in Baskerville," Sherlock pointed out.

"Well, at that time you made me believe I was stuck in a room with a monstrous hound and that I was bound to die a horrible death."

"But it was to solve the case and expose the true murderer."

"This time," John continued, ignoring him, "you must admit the whole experimenting was a little more pleasant."

Sherlock stared. Was John taking him for a fool? The detective knew full well that the ex-soldier would not consider so much the nature of the means than the overall picture, and in both cases, it was undeniable that he had been completely manipulated. In fact, he should be even angrier this time, since the means used, even if more pleasant, had been much more intimate and so degrading too. Not to mention there had been no murderer to expose, but just Sherlock's own selfishness...

John was watching his friend's face closely, still pressing their bodies together and caressing his back, trying to becalm him. For once, he could follow the consulting detective's turbulent thoughts on his face, and interrupted:

"You know I can't consider it the same way. Before the Basement, I probably would have taken it quite badly, but–"

"Is that it, then?" Sherlock cut in. "You are pitying me?"

"Sherlock, no–"

"You think that because I was _traumatized,_ it is only natural for me to be _scared_ as you say and so you forgive me more easily because this time I have _an excuse_?"

"Sherlock, listen to m–"

"Oh now _that_ explains why you're treating me so differently," Sherlock interrupted again, his tone acerbic.

"Sherlock!"

He jumped in John's arms and froze. But now he too was irritated, and fixed blazing eyes on his partner.

"Why are you so angry?" John murmured, stroking his cheek and ear.

Sherlock looked away, but John's hand continued to caress the back of his head and nape of his neck.

"You're acting like I'm a different person," Sherlock finally said between gritted teeth. His voice came out as a tremor. "Because he touched me, you–"

"No! No. It's just... Look, before the Basement, if for any reason we had begun a relationship – I mean, a sexual one – you probably wouldn't have felt the need to manipulate me, right? Or at least you wouldn't have felt bad about it."

Sherlock blinked, then retorted candidly:

"I don't know. I can't imagine us together like this before the Basement."

This time, it was John's turn to freeze and feel extremely cold.

"_I thought you would thank me, you know, for having reduced Sexy to such a mess he'd fall right into your arms. And pants, incidentally."_

_"You tortured my best friend!"_

_"Which resulted in you finally being able to shag him."_

"John?" Sherlock asked, slightly concerned.

But John did not answer. His gaze was lost in space, and his body growing colder every instant as realization dawned upon him.

Moriarty had been right, of course; so did this mean that John was indeed feeling guilty, and it was guilt that made him so lenient on Sherlock's behaviour?

He shook his head. No, the consulting criminal had been trying to confuse him, he should not let him win.

"What did he tell you?"

John started and looked up at his partner, who was staring at him intensely.

"What did he tell you before I arrived?"

John searched Sherlock's gaze for a moment. He could see nothing there but worry and anger mingled with fear.

"Basically, the same as Mycroft."

"And you believed him."

"Mycroft isn't Moriarty, Sherlock. He's your brother, and he truly cares about you, even if it's in a weird way. He acted for your own good. As for Moriarty... It's different, but in any case it's a bit hard to tell yourself you're not in denial when two geniuses have exposed your behaviour in front of you."

"But precisely, John, they're geniuses. You can't take their words for what they appear to be."

John shook his head.

"But it's true, you know? You just said so yourself. You cannot imagine us together before the Basement."

"It doesn't mean you took advantage of me!"

Their eyes locked.

"Is that why you are forgiving me this so easily?" Sherlock finally asked. "Because you think you are even more at fault than I am?"

"I don't know," John confessed, and something broke in his eyes.

Sherlock could not longer take it and leant in for a sensuous kiss. He wished everything wasn't so complicated; wished he could just touch John without having to worry about him leaving or his own body being disgusting, wished John could touch him without wondering if he was not a monster taking advantage of the detective's weakness. For once, Sherlock wished they could just both stop thinking, because it did not lead anywhere: he wasn't used to thinking not leading anywhere. So he simply deepened the kiss gradually until he felt John melt under him, and melted himself.

"Take me tonight," he whispered against John's lips when they parted.

"Sherlock, how is that relevant to anything?!" John protested, even though he was quite evidently aroused.

"If you take me tonight, you'll know that I trust you, if not each and every one of your words," Sherlock argued.

"But–"

"And you won't be taking advantage of me, since I am willing."

Sherlock repressed a shiver at the words. Whether he trusted John or not, this was terrifying.

John sighed, shaking his head as a small smile played on his lips. He kissed Sherlock, and replied:

"I would still be taking advantage of you, just like the rest of the time. You were broken, and I–"

"And you broke yourself down to pieces so you could be with me! Seriously, John, how did they manage to persuade you that you took the first opportunity to have sex with me? You always thought of me first, even during the sex. You never, never thought of yourself, but I–"

"Shh," John whispered soothingly, covering Sherlock's throat and face with light kisses and hating the tension animating his lover's features. He wished he had the power to dispel it all; wished he was smart enough to convince Sherlock that it was all fine. "I love you," he whispered, for lack of a better phrasing. "I want to stay with you no matter what. Obviously, for now you want me to stay as well. I don't see where the problem is."

"The problem is that you were kidnapped again because of me, were ready to be raped because of me, were treated like some inferior being just because you are with me, and all this time I was manipulating you in the worst possible way to make you stay with me. Don't you see? You're already addicted John! You said it yourself. You have to go. You have to go, while I can still give you the chance to."

"I see," John commented thoughtfully. "So is that it? You prepared everything for me to have my way with you so you could make it up to me for the past week, and then you intended to throw me out for my own good? God, you really deserved that punch..."

Sherlock shifted and tried to get out of the embrace, but John did not let him escape.

"Please calm down and try to see this with clearer eyes."

The detective glared.

"You beguiled me to share the flat with you by curing my psychosomatic limp and coaxing me with the possibility of danger. _Danger_, Sherlock. Since when has dangerous become not good? This isn't even the first time _I_ have been personally in danger because of my association with you: I was kidnapped by the Chinese Mafia, strapped with Semtex by a madman, threatened by CIA agents just to make you open a bloody safe..."

Sherlock was trying to get away more forcefully with each passing second, but John held him back gently yet firmly.

"See? That's why it is obvious to me that the Basement changed you – and for God's sake, Sherlock, it is only natural, and nothing to be ashamed of! You're just uncertain for now, but your confidence will come back. It's already started to."

"Fine."

John looked up to him in surprise, tilting his head to the side.

"Fine?"

"Yes, fine. You're right. Perhaps I am a bit... I wouldn't say scared, but..."

He averted his gaze in annoyance, and seeing the light pink tinge spreading across his cheekbones, John had to resist the urge to smother him with kisses.

Soon however Sherlock turned his eyes to John again, and added:

"But I still want to show you that I trust you. That you are not inferior to Moriarty or to me."

"Sherlock. I can't do this."

Something shattered in Sherlock's pupils, and John groaned.

"Don't take me wrong, you idiot. I am still hard from just seeing you with that damned leash and collar, bare and kneeling. But I can't do this, because you don't want it for yourself. You are just using it as a means to prove your trust, and it would, in fact, really prove it. But it would be horrible on my part to go along with this. I want you to want it. Not for me, but for us."

Sherlock growled something incomprehensible, in which John still caught the word "stupid", and catching John's hand, brought it down to his own groin. His flesh was flaccid, and John tried to take his hand back, definitely persuaded that Sherlock could not possibly want this, and ashamed of his own feral reaction. But Sherlock held his hand in place, and closing his eyes, took a deep breath. Slowly, John felt him quiver against his palm, then rise and harden little by little.

Rendered speechless by the fascinating twitch, John stopped trying to remove his hand. He wasn't even stroking or rubbing. Sherlock was getting aroused from the contact of John's palm through the sheet alone.

"Sherlock–"

"I do want you," the detective cut in, trying to dissipate his embarrassment. "I want you, beyond any motive or interest." He paused, then forced himself to look up. "So won't you have me?"

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

_tbc_


	26. Reciprocating

**.**

.

.

* * *

**Chapter 26: Reciprocating**

* * *

.

.

"Sherlock. I can't do this."

Something shattered in Sherlock's pupils, and John groaned.

"Don't take me wrong, you idiot. I am still hard from just seeing you with that damned leash and collar, bare and kneeling. But I can't do this, because you don't want it for yourself. You are just using it as a means to prove your trust, and it would, in fact, really prove it. But it would be horrible on my part to go along with this. I want you to want it. Not for me, but for us."

Sherlock growled something incomprehensible, in which John still caught the word "stupid". Catching John's hand, he brought it down to his own groin. His flesh was flaccid, and John tried to take his hand back, definitely persuaded that Sherlock could not possibly want this, and ashamed of his own feral reaction. But Sherlock held his hand in place. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Slowly, John felt him quiver against his palm, then little by little, rise and harden.

Rendered speechless by the fascinating twitch, John stopped trying to remove his hand. He wasn't even stroking or rubbing. Sherlock was getting aroused from the contact of his partner's palm through the sheet alone.

"Sherlock–"

"I do want you," the detective cut in, trying to dissipate his embarrassment. "I want you, beyond any motive or interest." He paused, then forced himself to look up. "So won't you have me?"

Oh God, this was just too much. If this wasn't manipulation, then what was?

"You are impossible," John murmured, unable to stop himself from caressing the pulsating flesh through the sheet, making Sherlock sigh and shiver.

John leant in for yet another kiss, never removing his hand, sliding the other one behind his lover's back and grabbing the nape of his neck. Massaging the tense tendons and the base of the scalp. Brushing their chests together. Stroking Sherlock's injured arm through the bandage.

Sherlock's moan died in the embrace as their breaths mingled. The contact of the detective's lips against his, the tentativeness of his truly devious tongue, were almost unbearable to John. He felt stupid because this made his head spin like it had never spun even when he was a healthy teenage boy. Either the psychological factors contributed to this profound sense of dizziness when he held Sherlock, or the lust was reinforced through physiological elements alone; in any case, John was really starting to experience within his own body the enactment of various expressions, hackneyed idioms, making them a blazing reality. To love to distraction, to fall head over heels in love... Anything that involved madness and this intoxicating giddiness.

"Fine," John eventually whispered against Sherlock's lips, tickling the soft spot behind his ear and playing with his curls. He could almost feel his friend straighten up in satisfaction at having won the argument – and perhaps, in anticipation?

"But this is something I want us to do together," John added firmly.

Sherlock put some distance between them to look his partner in the eye, arching an eyebrow. He did not see how they could do this _not_ together. Then, if John meant they should both do it _at the same time_, he definitely did not see how such a thing was physically possible. Noticing his confusion, John chuckled and developed with a smile:

"Is there anything you feel like doing?"

Sherlock stared.

"I thought I had just stated that quite clearly."

John rolled his eyes but they were twinkling with amusement as he unwittingly tightened his embrace in some spontaneous, inexplicable surge. Sherlock truly did seem obsessed with the idea, but obviously in a very funny way, as if one could just spread a man's legs and shag him as easily as one opened a door and went into a room: without any preparation. Tracing his infuriating, adorable lover's lips, noting the way they quivered as an increasingly annoyed Sherlock tried not to bite, John reformulated playfully:

"I meant any other request, your highness?"

John thought the detective would bounce back on the word ("It wasn't a request!" he would protest with a snort), but Sherlock didn't. The flow of their conversation tinged with banter abruptly came to an end. John was about to make some preemptive comment so his friend wouldn't get this wrong; _I'm not saying I am indulging you – I just want to do this with you, and not to you._ But Sherlock forestalled him.

"Love, and be silent," he said.

His face was unreadable, and his words sent John into an abyss of wonder. It was the first time he heard the word "love" in Sherlock's mouth, not in a sarcastic or contemptuous tone. In fact, John couldn't quite identify his tone. Perhaps because it was a quote. The reference itself made the whole utterance ambiguous: was Sherlock answering John's second question, giving him an order, continuing their banter? Was this just another (Sherlockian?) way to say: shut up and make love to me already?

Or was Sherlock answering John's first question...? The poor doctor could make no sense out of it.

Slowly, a small, small smirk made its way to Sherlock's face.

"Then don't try to," he advised as he subtly shifted to fit more perfectly against his flatmate's body.

John groaned.

"Enough," he grumbled, pulling away and getting rid of his clothes under Sherlock's perplexed gaze. Once he was just as naked as the detective, minus the sheet, he crept back up onto the couch and onto his lover, straddling him, wrapping his smaller body around Sherlock's tall, slender one. His joy was infinite when he realized Sherlock was relaxing into the embrace, and not stiffening like he usually did at first. John kissed and fondled and cuddled and nuzzled, stroking and tickling, alternating caresses with groping, inconceivably attentive to Sherlock's every move, his every reaction, intentional or not; every sound, every gesture, every tremor.

Sherlock let John cosset him as he pleased, rather enjoying the attention. From an outer point of view, it still seemed utterly grotesque to him: people snogging did not make sense, never did, and never would.

But from his present perspective, Sherlock thought the matter was different entirely: from an inner point of view, there was only a thrilling closeness and pleasurable contact, a touch that sent shivers and electric jolts throughout his body, setting him alight. The tension was only titillated to be better tamed and splintered, and Sherlock could feel the irrepressible rising of something that would make his body burst and release him. There was something to carnal pleasure Sherlock had never considered, something that could put him _and his mind_ on fire, send him towards higher spheres of consciousness and comprehension. He still remembered the dancing men on their piece of paper and the sense suddenly spurting out of John's touch as he'd pinned him against the wall.

But Sherlock hadn't forgotten his current goal either: proving his trust in John, to John, whom he had so flippantly deceived through seduction.

"John."

"Mm?"

"I'm enjoying this too much."

"It isn't supposed to be a punishment."

Sherlock fell quiet, a lovely frustrated pout gracing his face. John smothered it with kisses because right now nothing seemed enough and he felt ready to literally devour the detective any second.

"Could be dangerous," Sherlock said, catching John's thought God knows how. "Not in a good way, either."

"What do you mean?"

"Ever read Suskind's _Perfume_?"

"Nope."

"Never mind, then."

John sighed, shaking his head. Hesitantly at first, then more assuredly, Sherlock began to touch him as well, and to reciprocate the gestures. It was weird to do so while John was already pampering him, and Sherlock wondered why this felt so different. Uncertainty made him awkward, but John was too infatuated not to be indulgent. In fact, he enjoyed whatever Sherlock's hand did to him, because it was Sherlock's hand.

Truth be told, John too had goals he was intent on fulfilling tonight. Admittedly they weren't as ambitious as Sherlock's, but they were of great importance to John: first of all, to establish a link, both empirical and psychological, between Sherlock's thighs and his buttocks. To this effect, John knew he had to weave the sensation back from the thighs to the buttocks, and replace the traumatic coldness of unwanted hands with a new energy that would be Sherlock's very own, and no one else's.

The second goal was, if possible, to link the crook of the back to the lower back, buttocks and thighs as well. When massaging Sherlock, John had become aware just to what extent this part of the detective seemed to be cut off, most likely to get rid of all "pointless" sensations, unusable in a case. Then there was the matter of the nape of Sherlock's neck, and more generally of his entire spine – or rather, all the tense knots on each side of it. All in all, John was strongly determined to completely blow his lover's mind in the process. Since Sherlock seemed so desperate to assure John of his trust through penetration, John would try to include that, too. But it wasn't fundamentally necessary to the plan. Sherlock came first, mind and body; all of him.

And so as their limbs intertwined, so did the general direction of their intentions: in every sense, set towards the other.

"Throat," Sherlock indicated in a sigh, and John obediently kissed his way down the stretched, gauzy skin, tender to the mouth. "Temple," and John had to move back up, "trapezium," and John slid down, "elbow, ear, fingers, wrist, stomach, hip..."

_Oh, how clever_, John realized, but he was too engrossed in his lover to stop his ministrations. Sherlock, under the guise of his usual cockiness, was bringing John exactly where he wanted him, evidently hoping he would get carried away and take him on the spur of the moment. Well, that was not going to happen, John mused with a smile, kissing the hip reverently.

He sneaked a hand between his partner's legs, went past the trembling shaft and stroked the balls, eliciting a yearning whine and a reproach: "John!"

John smiled and nuzzled Sherlock's groin to stifle the protest, which only resulted in more whining at the teasing, and repeated glowers. It made John want to tantalize him even more. So he kissed and licked and blew softly, nuzzled and rubbed and petted, until Sherlock's complaints were reduced to a nonsensical babble. Sherlock believed he was in seventh heaven already, when he felt John's tongue glide past his balls and press its tip to his perineum.

Sherlock didn't know whether his cry or his climax came first. But he heard his own scream fill the room as he was hit by an orgasmic blow. He had never been hit by a train – and never wished to be, thank you very much – but he imagined that the sensation of orgasm, the peak of sexual pleasure, was analogue to coming into collision with a high-speed train of blinding light. The impact was staggering, the glare and brightness overwhelming. It completely swallowed the pain that intermittently stabbed him in the arm. Sherlock was positively knocked out and swallowed by the sheer intensity of the light. He was bursting, and the scream was just a way to release the tension that was threatening to shatter him from the inside.

"More..." he murmured as the sensation began to fade away, like the sea withdrawing after a tidal wave. "I want more," he commanded.

John laughed and hugged him tightly, kissing his cheek in a surge of affection, ridiculously happy. He felt blessed, and wondered what he had done in his life to deserve such bliss. His encounter with Sherlock was miraculous.

"I don't know what God to thank," he whispered in a smile.

Sherlock, dazed in the afterglow, sent John a groggy look.

"You can thank me," he said in a pompous, giddy tone.

John smiled and kissed him on the lips, deepening the contact gradually and drowning in the exhilarating warmth of his mouth, the addictive softness. Such deep craving was making him woozy.

"Is this all right? Are you enjoying it?"

"Can't you tell?"

John snuggled closer.

"I just don't want to be the only one getting off on this."

"Obviously I'm the one who just–"

"Won't you lie on your stomach?"

Sherlock's heart missed a beat and suddenly he didn't feel so dizzy anymore. He couldn't help but tense slightly, almost imperceptibly. But John noticed.

"I only want to give you a massage."

Sherlock scowled, both irritated that John had assumed he was _scared_ again, and that he was still neglecting his own erection.

Sliding his hand down John's torso and between his legs, Sherlock rested his hand on his hard-on and locked eyes with him.

"You're the one not taking your pleasure."

"This isn't about taking, Sherlock. It's–"

"Stop giving me everything," he interrupted in a low voice, bringing his smaller partner closer. "Think of yourself."

"I do," John murmured, kissing his temple and resting his cheek against Sherlock's. "I do. But your very presence is so heady... It's hard not to be captivated."

"You're an idiot."

"Why, thank you."

"Come here," Sherlock said as he brought John ever closer, fondling his crotch.

"Nngh... Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"I'm fine, really. Please... I really want to massage you."

"Just massage me?"

"I'll do anything you want."

"You know what I want."

John nodded.

"I know. But you don't _need_ that to get off, you–"

"Are you saying I am so inexperienced that it would be a waste to go all the way now because you can make me climax in much simpler ways?" Sherlock asked, clearly miffed.

John chuckled.

"Exactly."

"You–!"

"Won't you be good and turn on your stomach?"

"'Course I will. I told you you could do anything," Sherlock mumbled sullenly as he complied.

John's gaze broke.

"Is it that unpleasant?"

"What?" Sherlock replied, turning back, very surprised by his friend's tone, and horrified to see pain on his face. "No, John, I–"

"So you really are indulging me."

"No! I..."

He fell silent, not knowing how to phrase what he felt. As he was desperately groping for words, his eyes filled with anguish and his body started tensing again.

Wordless as well, John leant in and rested his whole body on Sherlock's, ignoring the fact that his feet didn't even reach Sherlock's ankles, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

"I enjoy it," Sherlock finally croaked, bringing a tentative hand to John's back. "More than that. You're better than cocaine."

"But..."

This time, it was John's turn to fall silent, because he didn't know how to express his fear. Sherlock's hand on his back was getting lower and lower, until it reached the parting line of his buttocks and paused there for a while.

"I know what you think," Sherlock said.

_For a change_, John thought. Sherlock went on.

"Since I never manifested any interest of a sexual or romantic nature in you before the Basement, and since I made it quite clear that I was married to my work and very happy with it, you think that Moriarty has traumatized me in such a way that now I am desperate to keep you around, no matter the price, because you are my only friend and I am scared to be alone."

"Sherlock–"

"You think I never felt any attraction towards you before I was humiliated in front of you, and then my relationship with you was unnaturally twisted and perverted into the one we have now: that is, me being terrified of you leaving, and ready to do anything to prevent it. You think I only ever considered you as my friend – my only friend – and that the whole sensual aspect was never needed, never my own desire. You feel like although you only tried to help me, or thought you were only trying to help me, what you truly did was make me even more dependent on you, as Mycroft feared, and that you took what _you_ wanted when I was most vulnerable and couldn't refuse you."

John's breath had caught in his throat, and he moved back to look Sherlock in the eye. His own pupils were trembling, his vision blurred.

"I'm so sorry, I–"

"Stop it. I said: that is what you are thinking. Now let me make things clear to you so you can stop revering me and treat me like a man – neither a god, nor a child."

John was completely lost, and searched Sherlock's face for answers. The detective took a deep breath.

"I never thought of you as anything but a friend before the Basement," he first confirmed, and John, even though he already knew that, felt even more miserable. "It never even crossed my mind," Sherlock added as if it was necessary to rub it in. John could no longer take it and averted his gaze.

Sherlock pressed his flatmate's arm to keep his attention on what he was saying.

"But John, did you forget what Moriarty said? Did you forget what _you_ said when you danced for me?"

John's mind was brought back to one week before, and memories flashed before his eyes.

"Did you forget why Moriarty wanted you to be present? Did you forget what he said when I..." he gulped, closed his eyes, and reopened them with determination as he finished: "... as I came?"

The doctor looked back at his partner, a question in his eyes.

"I had never thought of it. I never dreamt of it at night either, or anything of the sort. But his demonstration was convincing enough. He managed to break me because of my lack of lucidity."

"But–"

"I'm not saying I was madly in love with you and never noticed until then. I'd be lying," Sherlock cut in. "And I don't know if I can ever give you the feelings you want from me. But you must understand I'm not... I am..."

He scowled, annoyed with his own poor elocution. John stroked his hair.

"There's only you, you see. I told you before we even started this. You're my best friend, and I never wish to lose this. I never had friends. To others, I am a "Freak". Then you have all the parental figures whom I annoy and worry, but who care, for some unfathomable reason. Because they are good people, probably. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade... Mycroft is different," he grumbled with a glare, and John was only falling more and more in love with him, because he was adorable. "Molly, too," Sherlock added as an afterthought. "But she's infatuated. Still, I'm sure she'll turn into a mother figure towards me when she gets married."

John believed so, too. But he didn't quite see what Sherlock was getting at.

"But you're different," the detective went on, and John wondered if that meant: in the same way as Mycroft. "You're the only person I ever lived with apart from family. You're the only one who _stands_ living with me. You are the only one who goes on cases with me."

In the back of his head, John could hear Mycroft's words echo in his mind. _What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes? - I don't have one. I barely know him, I met him...yesterday. - Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?_

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, reading John's mind as usual. "It was only logical for him to make such an assumption, knowing me. But that was not all. You must understand; surely you must have found out already. Mycroft never makes any comment without a specific reason. Neither does Moriarty. Everything they do, everything they say is oriented towards a goal."

"Yes, yes, they are masters of manipulation. But you're almost as capable as them."

"Almost?" Sherlock echoed, his tone offended despite himself.

John smirked.

"Because you're a big kid. Manipulating people bores you, it doesn't make you feel all nice and superior, because you already feel superior as it is, and feeling above everyone else never made you feel nice. It's horrible not to have anyone to do some sparring with, isn't it?"

Sherlock blinked, bemused by John's deep understanding – deeper than he'd thought, in any case.

"And you're too bold. Except for cases, you don't give a damn about what people think of you, it doesn't matter in the least if it cannot help you solve a mystery. You're like a prince child in a tower... I was wrong about you. Mycroft knows, too. You're a genius, but you decided to become a detective. You chose a job – sorry, created – through which you would be in contact with people, actual people. What you deduce are human intentions and thoughts. You do not wish to be the puppet-master. You wish to be on stage, under the spotlight, and get all the applause."

Sherlock pouted, but did not deny anything. John, however, added seriously:

"But wanting to be in contact with people, hoping to be distracted from boredom... All that is very different from wanting to have sex with anyone."

"Yes, sex. Let's talk about it, since you're so intent on _not_ keeping silent. The first time Mycroft met you, he basically told you you'd better marry me if you were to ever get involved with me, because otherwise, he'd have you killed."

John goggled.

"He did?!"

"Well, he was more subtle, of course. He used it more as a symbol. But clearly he told you that your position was not common – that no one ever had been in such a position with me. From day one, he told you that I cared."

This made John wonder about the elder Holmes.

"Then he tested you, of course."

"The spying and the money."

"Yes. And you rose in his esteem. He found you worthy of trust."

"Are you saying the kidnapping was just another test?" John asked, disbelieving.

Sherlock nodded.

"Never take what he says literally. His words are always suggestive. Moriarty's are rather of the performative type."

John arched an eyebrow, so Sherlock developed:

"He says you feel guilty, and suddenly you do. Of course it must have been there before, but he's very talented in bringing things to the surface. Mycroft's power is more that of suggestion, but Moriarty does have some of that, too."

While Sherlock was talking, John noticed his friend's hand had incidentally gone down again, and was now fondling John's crotch from behind. He shivered.

"Please get to the point."

"There are many points. Moriarty didn't expect you to be so brilliant and to save me after all. Now he's frustrated and thrilled all at once, and he's just playing with our minds. Mycroft too is playing with our minds, but differently: the kidnapping was both a test and a lesson. So were the cameras."

"You knew?" John asked, in shock.

Sherlock smiled bitterly.

"You mean I was fooled, too. There never were any cameras."

John stared.

"What do you mean?"

"Shame, John," he said, grabbing his balls from behind and making him moan unawares.

"Sherlock!" John protested.

"Self-consciousness," Sherlock went on, ignoring him. "Moriarty is messing with us, and Mycroft is making us ask ourselves the right questions. They really should get a life," he added sullenly.

John chuckled, then suddenly cried out and arched his back when Sherlock's hand tickled the base of his shaft.

"How can your arm be so long?!" he squealed.

Sherlock smirked.

"Because your body is so small."

John looked up and glared, but Sherlock brought his other hand up front, and while the right one stroked and teased his balls and perineal membrane, his left one wrapped around his penis and started pumping very, very softly, not enough to make him come.

"Sherlock, we're talking!"

"Unfortunately, yes. So do you understand, now?"

John understood nothing at all, and was becoming less and less likely to do so. Sherlock sighed.

"I feel unworthy, you feel unworthy, and we're getting nowhere. I will still think my body is horrendous and I cannot comprehend how you can like it; I will keep trying to please you and to be a satisfying sexual partner, because now I have found I like it, and I would never want to do it with anyone else but you – not for any stupid romantic reason, I must say, but because _there is no one else_. Never has been, and probably never will be. You're my only friend. Now I want to keep you to myself until the end, and so I want you to enjoy it too. I'm sorry I can say nothing more. Your presence makes the atmosphere warmer and the flat more comfortable. You with me on cases provides the applause" (At this his eyes lit with amusement, and John even wondered if he didn't see him wink.) "You bounce back ideas, you make stupid comments and absurd remarks, but it gives my mind the light and energy to suddenly grasp everything. You _conduct_ the light."

"Well, glad my stupidity makes me useful," John grumbled, and to assuage him Sherlock started rubbing his shaft more regularly. John moaned and held onto the sheet on each side of Sherlock to remain focused.

"In other words, I want you by my side because it makes everything better."

"Then what's the problem?" John asked, half-delirious already, and exhausted by the teasing.

Sherlock stopped his moves abruptly, and looked John in the eye.

"I put your life in jeopardy. I am not kind and loving and considerate. And you can never be a father with me."

"Oh that's fine, you fill the role of a brat as much as the role of a lover..." John groaned, trying not to thrust his hips wantonly into the touch.

Noticing his longing, Sherlock resumed his dextrous strokes, and went on:

"You could have been raped because of me."

"B... but you said it... yourself... 'twas.. empty words."

It never crossed John's mind that _he_ was on top and could make Sherlock stop his devilish touch any time. The sensations were too powerful, and he, too addicted.

"It was. But the point is that you would have agreed to it."

At this, John forced himself to concentrate on the discussion again, and he brought his hand down to stop Sherlock's. His lover froze.

"This isn't your responsibility."

Sherlock shivered and looked away, trying not to break now. It wasn't the right time. But he'd been scared, so scared...

"I would've shot him, you know."

"What?"

"Moriarty. I would've shot him."

Sherlock's voice died in his throat. Moved beyond words, John leant in and kissed Sherlock like he had never kissed him. It was a "thank you" and a plea, a worship and a prayer; it said "You would have been wrong, I was wrong to ever think you were not worth all hardships, even rape." It expressed infinite depths of love and gratefulness, it was an apology and a vow. It was so much Sherlock did not even know how to answer it, was at a loss as to how he should reciprocate this flood of... of what?

He should not have been so concerned. His reaction to John's touch was becoming more and more spontaneous. Soon he kissed back, and it was all hunger, a thirst begging to be quenched, and the seizing of what he wanted with voracity. His hands started moving on John's lower parts again and the pain in his arm was rendered irrelevant, a merely peripheral sensation. The poor doctor wriggled and moaned helplessly into the shrewd embrace, his body betraying his own lust. Soon he was thrusting his pelvis down shamelessly, wailing in Sherlock's mouth and screaming as he suddenly arched his back and gasped for air: his body went rigid for less than a second before it was racked with spasms. Sherlock kept fingering and pumping as he held the small writhing body, enjoying how John's skin was glistening with sweat, his brow drenched, his lips parted in a desperate attempt to breathe.

Finally, John fell back on his partner's body, limp, trying to catch his breath. Sherlock brought a hand to his head and hesitantly mimicked him, stroking his hair in what he hoped was a soothing manner.

Once his breathing had become less hectic, John pushed himself up on his elbows to look at Sherlock.

"I want the sex too," Sherlock murmured, quite exhausted himself. "I want it because it doesn't blind my mind, it _liberates _it. It doesn't prevent me from thinking, on the contrary. It makes me see things more clearly."

John smiled and stroked his cheek fondly. Sherlock looked away and added with a slight blush John found irresistible:

"And I like the power it gives me over you. Of course you have the same over me, but it's not a problem. I like touching you, and I like you touching me. Reducing you to a writhing mess and seeing that _I_ can give you so much pleasure... Subduing you and pleasuring you has proved much more thrilling than I ever thought it would be."

John turned crimson but was too happy to feel embarrassed or offended. Sherlock took his hand gingerly (or maybe, rather groggily).

"Can we continue? Stop the talking. Just..."

"Love, and be silent?" John suggested with a smile.

Sherlock smirked and they exchanged an amused, knowing look. John leant in and kissed his lover briefly.

"Fine with me," he murmured against the fleshy lips as an idea popped in his mind.

He bent to the side, took the collar and the leash under Sherlock's puzzled gaze, and put them on himself.

"What–"

"Shall we do this, then?" John interrupted teasingly, nonchalantly playing with the leash.

Sherlock blinked in confusion.

"But tell me, _dear_," the ex-soldier continued in the same sultry, ironic tone. "Are you sure you do not want to take _me_?"

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

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_tbc_


	27. Dancing

**.**

.

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* * *

**Chapter 27: Dancing**

* * *

.

.

"Can we continue? Stop the talking. Just..."

"Love, and be silent?" John suggested with a smile.

Sherlock smirked and they exchanged an amused, knowing look. John leant in and kissed his lover briefly.

"Fine with me," he murmured against the fleshy lips as an idea popped into his mind.

He bent to the side, took the collar and the leash under Sherlock's puzzled gaze, and put them on himself.

"What–"

"Shall we do this, then?" John interrupted teasingly, nonchalantly playing with the leash.

Sherlock blinked in confusion.

"But tell me, _dear_," the ex-soldier continued in the same sultry, ironic tone. "Are you sure you do not want to take _me_?"

Sherlock stared for a second, then groaned. He pulled John down and bit his throat, just below the ear, leaving a mark and eliciting a moan.

"Of course I want to take you, you idiot. But..." _Not tonight_, he finished mentally.

So he pushed John back slightly, and remembering his previous request, rolled on his stomach.

"You said you would massage me," he remarked, trying to go for the haughty tone. He heard John chuckle at his back and suddenly felt his warm breath against the nape of his neck. Sherlock sighed contentedly.

"You turn me down and then you give me orders?" John said in a low voice that made Sherlock shiver. John's hand running down his spine tantalizingly did not help him keep his composure either.

"I didn't... turn you down," he retorted, rather breathless from the position and the touch of his partner.

"You positively turned your back on me, love," John teased, because it was so rare that _he_ could do the teasing and he relished it.

"But you...!"

John cut off the protest by kissing Sherlock on the nose again, which made the detective growl threateningly. The image of a very capricious, regal panther lying on their couch was conjured up in John's mind, and he couldn't help but laugh.

"It's not funny!" Sherlock growled. "I swear next time I'll bite you."

"You'll bite me anyway," John retorted, playing with a black lock of hair before kissing the beloved brow. "I'll be right back."

As John stood and walked to the door, Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Where are you going?"

"To get stuff."

Sherlock scoffed.

"You have me lying naked before you and you need to _get stuff_?"

"Oh, don't whine."

Sherlock didn't, but he snorted as John went up to his room.

He was still having a hard time getting used to John caring so much – being so insanely devoted and loving. Of course, John was such a good man to begin with, brave and faithful and _caring_. He was no mere soldier; he had been an army doctor, which was entirely different. He certainly liked the thrill, but he had gone there to save lives in the first place. There was something quaint and chivalrous about him and Sherlock was surprised this triggered more tenderness in him than annoyance. Still, regardless of John's nature, Sherlock found the contingency of John loving him of all people quite bewildering and rather miraculous. He wondered idly whether he had met so many people who hated him in his life (or rather whom he had made hate him) just because it was written somewhere that one day he would meet John Watson and receive a greater amount of love than most men on earth.

When he acknowledged this last thought, Sherlock slapped himself mentally. God, John's absence definitely made him more stupid. Or perhaps he was still a bit groggy from his last climax.

Soon John was back, and Sherlock did not bother hiding a smirk, realizing that he'd gone out onto the staircase wearing only a dog collar and a leash. John seemed to have had the same thought, for he returned his amused smile.

"So? What marvellous 'stuff' was worth leaving me here?" Sherlock inquired.

"Well, first of all, your Highness, lube."

"But I did get lubricant!" Sherlock protested, pointing at the table where John had put the small bottle.

John hummed as he leant in for a kiss. "Definitely not enough," he told him.

Sherlock pouted and turned his face at the last moment, so John's lips crushed against his jaw. John blinked and laughed.

"Oh, you infuriating man...Stand up."

"Are you going to massage me standing?" Sherlock asked, disbelieving but complying nonetheless.

"No, you idiot. Do you want to stay in the living-room?"

Sherlock looked around briefly.

"Yes. But can we turn off the light?"

John smiled, as if he had expected this.

"I will need to see you a minimum to do this. I don't know your body well enough yet."

Sherlock grumbled something incomprehensible and was almost about to sulk; but then he remembered he really wanted this and replied instead:

"Fine. But can't we at least make it dimmer?"

"Sure," John answered, and from his tone Sherlock already knew there was something fishy going on. His suspicion was confirmed when John took out of the plastic bag he'd brought down two candles, one in each hand. Turning to Sherlock with the largest of grins, he offered:

"Candles?"

"You planned this!" Sherlock exclaimed, seeing many more candles in the bag.

"No, I just knew you'd be difficult and fuss about the light."

"And so you thought: 'Ooh let's do something romantic'."

John smiled at the sarcastic tone and laid the duvet and the sheet on the floor.

"Of course. It's my first time, after all."

Sherlock stared.

"With a man," John developed. "With you."

The detective blinked, and to dispel the embarrassment John's gaze was causing him, turned and lay flat on his stomach on the sheet and duvet.

"Just light your bloody candles already," he muttered.

John obeyed happily. He'd learned to always have candles in the house, especially in one where a torch would most likely end up in pieces for Sherlock to play with. John liked candles better anyway, in the event of a power cut. That was something he got from his childhood. Whenever there was a power cut that could not be fixed within the house and when it lasted more than a few minutes, his mother would get the candles and tell them stories. Or they would just end up chatting in the dining-room. Absentmindedly, John wondered whether Harry had taken up the same habit.

After he'd lit the last candle, he turned off the light and admired their living-room, which was truly transfigured by the soft glow. John beamed.

"Won't you stop grinning like a fool and massage me?" Sherlock whined, losing patience and getting more nervous by the minute.

John simply shook his head and straddled his lover, sitting on his buttocks. Sherlock started and shivered, but then slackened once more. The smaller man leant in to kiss his partner's ear, the nape of his neck. Sherlock moaned softly as he felt John's genitals being pressed against his back, the skin of John's buttocks rubbing against his.

Enjoying every shiver it sent down his lover's spine, John stroked the black mop of hair and massaged the scalp. He slowly made his way to the neck, which he undertook to relax with an earnest, precise touch, spreading lavender oil and massaging with his thumbs. Sherlock was concentrating on breathing deeply and regularly, intent on completely relaxing his body to show John that he trusted and wanted him. But he was so anxious about it that it only strained his muscles more. Hence his focusing on his breathing so his body would stop being so difficult and _stiff_.

As he kneaded the tight muscles, John could tell how much effort Sherlock was making and only loved him more for it. He wished his friend would understand it was only natural to be tense and scared upon being touched so intimately, when you had been estranged from any tender physical contact for so long – perhaps even always? And most of all, when you had been so violently shocked into the realization of your own physical needs or desires.

"John..." Sherlock sighed.

"Mm?"

"You'll put me to sleep if you relax me too much. Won't you go lower now?"

John smiled. He was glad that Sherlock had decided to talk after all. This would make things easier, since John wasn't so good at guessing.

So lower John went, working out every knot on each side of the spine. He was fascinated with the way his touch made Sherlock undulate. Every time a knot melted a little under his fingers, John felt a wave of joy and triumph wash over him. Sometimes he had to use his elbow in order to tackle a very resilient knot and Sherlock jumped and writhed and cried out. Every time, John held his hand or stroked his hair, and not once did Sherlock complain.

First of all, because he knew it was in fact good for his body, even if it didn't feel like it presently; then because John wanted this and right now Sherlock was ready to accept anything John would want to do to him. Finally, because Sherlock too wanted to relax – desperately so. He knew John would never be able to penetrate him if he didn't, and even if he could, would never wish to do so.

So he kept breathing deeply and allowed himself to melt under John's touch. He was very surprised to see that his body did not stiffen when John lowered himself and knelt between his legs, parting them. Sherlock shut his eyes tighter but let John massage his lower back and the upper half of his buttocks.

"John..." he sighed.

"Yes?"

"John."

John furrowed his brow slightly and leant in, caressing his lover's hair.

"Yes?"

"Nothing... Just wanted to say your name," Sherlock replied drowsily.

John blinked, then blushed like a teenager and burst into happy laughter. Sherlock glared.

"What's so funny now?"

"Nothing. I love you."

"John... Stupid John..."

John shook his head and kissed Sherlock's exposed cheek, his chin, his throat, never getting enough. His hands kept kneading his friend's lower back and buttocks energetically.

"You're so tense here," John murmured. Sherlock made no comment, but took a deeper breath and tried to let go. He wasn't even aware of being stiff at all and grumbled: "Probably always have been. I don't even _feel_ tense."

John smiled and kissed his way down to the area he was massaging, pressing his lips to the left hipbone, the coccyx, the right buttock, the left one... As he went back up again and traced the pelvic bone with kisses, his touch sent jolts of electricity throughout Sherlock's body at first, then shivers and waves of soft, gentle pleasure that went straight to his groin.

"John..."

"Yes?"

"John."

John smiled.

"John... Your name is weird."

"_My_ name is weird?"

Sherlock nodded and John noticed a faint blush spreading to his cheeks, which deepened every time John kissed him.

"How so?"

"It's such a common name. Has been for a while, too."

"And _that's_ weird?" John teased, moving on to the thighs.

"No. But... it should be impersonal. It should be nothing special."

John grinned widely as he palpated the strained muscles of Sherlock's thighs.

"And it is?"

Sherlock snorted, burying his face into the duvet.

"Just shut up and keep massaging."

A smirk played on John's lips.

"Aren't you the one talking?"

Sherlock growled vaguely and fell silent as John parted his legs a little wider and kissed his inner thigh.

"I'm going to use the lube now," John said. He paused. "It's probably going to smell like ylang-ylang... Is that all right?"

"Ylang-ylang? I wouldn't have thought you to be so exotic."

John chuckled. "I'm really not. It just happened to be both lube and massage gel, so..."

At this, Sherlock could not help turning his head towards his friend, a question in his eyes.

"You bought it for me?"

"For us."

"As I said."

"Problem?" John inquired a little worriedly.

"Not at all."

"It might be a bit cold at first."

"Yes, mother hen."

Sherlock still jolted when John spread the lube over his thighs and buttocks, but John was wise enough to make no comment about it. He concentrated on massaging instead, his touch becoming lighter – a caress. Slowly, he went up from the thighs to the middle of the back, then down again. He worked out the tighter knots that had resisted his massage, linking the back, buttocks and thighs together again, sending stirring quivers throughout them, making Sherlock shiver again and again until the detective could finally feel his body as a whole and stop cutting himself off from sensations.

Sherlock just lay there quietly, his breathing natural again. The different scents around him were mingling together – lavender, ylang-ylang, but also the wax from the burning candles, the distinct smell of their living-room, the smell of his own bedsheet, John's scent... Despite the duvet, he could feel the hardness of their floor under him. From where he was lying he barely recognized the room. The glow of the candlelight cast shadows around them, and on his white sheet with John over him, Sherlock had the impression of floating on a raft of mist across a nocturnal world of phantasms. Their world.

He could not tell how long the massage lasted or when it turned into sensual caresses and passionate kisses. John's kisses were funny, Sherlock mused. Distinctly overflowing with desire, yet worshipping and full of respect; but even that did not make them akin to the idolatrous kisses of fanatical lovers who see a divine being in the one they adore, and whose touch betray the fear and doubt of those who believe themselves to be unworthy. John's kisses were respectful without putting this necessary distance between the worshipper and his god. They were lustful without being selfish, they took pleasure as well as gave it, and were very attentive to Sherlock's reactions. What John's kisses conveyed was joy – as if he felt inconceivably lucky to be able to be here with Sherlock, yet did not question his own right to it.

Such kisses gradually made Sherlock want to kiss back, and every time he did, he grew less anxious about answering them properly. His lips seemed to know exactly what he wanted and he thought observing John's reactions would prove more efficient than just guessing what was expected of him; all the more so as John did not actually seem to be expecting anything.

However, Sherlock now found out how frustrating John's kisses were when he could not answer them in any way – when he could not even touch John, or see him. Now he understood what John must have felt like, handcuffed to a bedpost and blindfolded. Reciprocating, was it? Such a strange concept. But Sherlock did not dare tell John anything and so he patiently waited, lying on his stomach.

That is, until John started to part his buttocks and kiss him there. Sherlock knew it was John, could recognize his touch, his scent; and he could not deny whatever John was doing with his lips and his _tongue_ was very pleasurable. Yet his position, perhaps, or the fact that he could only lie there and wait, made him stiffen almost imperceptibly. The moment Sherlock realized it, he forced himself to slacken at once, praying that John hadn't noticed.

But John had. He even frowned a little when he saw his partner was trying to hide it.

"Sherlock..." John said, warning in his voice.

"Mmm?" Sherlock replied innocently, trying to sound drowsier than he was.

"What was it you didn't like?"

"What?"

"Right now. You stiffened. What did I do that you didn't like?"

"Nothing. You're imagining things."

"Sherlock."

Now John's tone was genuinely hurt. Sherlock felt a pang of guilt. He sat up and moved his legs so as to have John sitting between them again, this time facing Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around the smaller man possessively and pressed their bodies together tightly, a look of candid determination in his eyes. John rested his brow against his lover's and hugged him back.

"We don't have to do this, you know," he murmured.

"But I want to," Sherlock retorted. "I just... Can I lie on my back now?"

John blinked, and finally understood. A smile lit up his face and he gave Sherlock an Eskimo kiss.

"Of course. I wanted to see your face anyway."

"Actually, I'm good here too," Sherlock mumbled, wrapping himself around John and feeling the warmth. John smiled and stroked the back of his head.

"Then stay."

"Kiss me."

"I can't kiss you if you rest your head on my shoulder, Sherlock. _Quite a bit of contortion_, don't you think?"

Sherlock snorted, but raised his head. John leant in. However, before he could do anything, Sherlock pinned him with a glare and added:

"Not on the nose."

"Aw, come on."

"No."

"Just one kiss?"

"_No._"

John pouted and kissed Sherlock on the eyebrow.

"What's with the eyebrow now?" Sherlock groaned.

"Nothing. I like how it twitches when I kiss it."

"What's wrong with my mouth?"

"Oh, nothing's wrong with your mouth, believe me."

And to make his point, he kissed the luscious pair of lips. Sherlock whimpered with satisfaction.

"So, which is better..." he murmured as they broke the kiss, pressing his groin against John's for better effect. "My nose, or my lips?"

"Mmm... not sure. Let's see." And teasingly, he gave Sherlock a peck on the nose. The taller man growled and bit John's lower lip, making him gasp. He grabbed the leash and pulled John in for a wild, inflamed kiss. His firm grip on the nape of John's neck, his hips bucking slyly against John's erection, his tongue piercing him almost pushed the poor doctor over the edge.

"Sherlock!" he moaned.

He would have been content just spending the whole night holding Sherlock like this. But he knew what his friend wanted, and regardless of how inclined he was to just cuddle all night, he wanted to please him, and accept his token of trust – since trust was mainly what this was all about.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?" Sherlock replied distractedly, sucking John's earlobe experimentally, then biting it as if he were getting bored with its lack of response.

"I'm not sure this is the best position for..." John trailed off.

"Oh."

Sherlock seemed to think for a second, then frowned.

"Shouldn't it work just fine?"

John couldn't repress a chuckle.

"Sherlock, you can't enter someone out of the blue. Especially not in anal sex – unless your body is really used to it, perhaps? I'm not even sure. But in any case, your body definitely isn't used to it. I have to prepare you."

"Isn't that what you've been doing, though? You've massaged me for at least an hour!"

John smiled indulgently.

"Yes, well... I meant a more local preparation."

And slowly, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face to observe his every reaction, John slipped his hand down Sherlock's back and between his cheeks, which were already parted since he'd wrapped his legs around John. John's fingers caressed the sensitive skin and stopped on Sherlock's entrance. As Sherlock breathed in deeply, John felt his friend's heart hammer against his own chest. But Sherlock did not stiffen and his eyes, locked with John's, were glowing with determination.

"Fine," he said. "In what position do you want me?"

The question made John melt and he hugged Sherlock tightly, leaning in for yet another French kiss. Sherlock let him. Gently, a hand on the nape of his lover's neck, John bent to lay Sherlock on his back. But he did not let go of him and kept kissing him, their torsos brushing, their legs slowly unravelling.

Truth be told, John was just as nervous as Sherlock. He did not want to hurt him, yet was well aware that avoiding pain in anal sex, especially the first time, was more than difficult. At best, it would be uncomfortable. And then, perhaps, pleasurable. It wasn't something he would've wanted to do, at least not for a while. There were so many other ways to pleasure Sherlock, ways that would only be enjoyable. John had never had anal sex with a woman and he wasn't confident about his skills to say the least.

But this held a special meaning for Sherlock. It was his way to show John that he cared about what they had. It was a bit extreme, but so typical of Sherlock. John wished he could make him understand that it wasn't necessary, that he knew Sherlock trusted him. But John also knew it wouldn't be enough. Furthermore, he feared that Sherlock would infer from his refusal that John did not want him, which was ridiculous.

True, John had to admit it did feel a bit awkward. He did not think he could have done this with any other man. But with Sherlock? With Sherlock, he was actually excited. His erection was even becoming painful, and it occurred to him that Sherlock's probably was, too.

As his hand wrapped around the hard member however, Sherlock jolted and gave him an almost betrayed look.

"I'm fine. Go on," he said.

John kissed him again – it was becoming an addiction.

"I know you're fine. But isn't it painful?"

Sherlock frowned.

"I'm fine. You already made me come once."

"Do you think I won't be able to make you come a third time? And a fourth? And a fifth?" John teased, punctuating each word with a kiss down Sherlock's chest.

"I... That's not the issue... ah! John!" he protested as John swallowed him and started sucking. Sherlock put his hands on John's head in a desperate attempt to stop him, but soon forgot why he was trying to put an end to the marvelous sensations John was giving him and unwittingly began to massage the scalp that was offered to him.

"John..."

"Mm?"

"Aah! John... John, John, John, John, John..."

John smiled. Sherlock wasn't saying his name like a passionate lover giving in to ecstasy. Rather, he sounded as if he were testing the name, trying out different ways to pronounce it with a different emphasis each time. Sherlock's tone was actually _curious._ It was exhilarating.

A second later, he came in John's mouth with a strangled cry. John waited until he was completely limp, then moved on to kissing, licking and nibbling his thighs gently. When he looked to see his lover's expression, he saw Sherlock glaring at him with a groggy, sullen pout that made him look like a sulking child. In an irrepressible surge of affection, John hugged him, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his head on his hip and thigh.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"If penetrating a man repulses you, it's–"

"What? No!" John crawled back up to be face to face with Sherlock. He looked him in the eye intensely. "You're just so impatient."

"Did you ever think of it before I mentioned it?"

"What?"

"Anal intercourse."

John saw something quiver in his lover's pupils, and replied firmly:

"Yes."

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised. Then he seemed to remember something, and his expression became thoughtful, almost questioning. John studied him closely.

"You're trying to guess when."

"When you shoved me against the wall."

John nodded decidedly. This was no time to be embarrassed. But to his surprise, Sherlock's annoyed face broke into a smirk.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Oh come on, tell me."

"John, as you said, I am impatient. So can we move on?"

"Did you?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Think of it before considering it as a... a means?"

The detective smiled as he let his hand fall to John's erection. John gasped.

"Yes. Now won't you move on? Or rather, in?"

John simply answered his smile. He spread lube all over Sherlock's groin and set to work. With kisses and caresses, licks and nibbles, he made his way to Sherlock's entrance.

"You don't have to lick it," Sherlock suddenly said.

"Would you rather I did not?"

"I would rather you kissed my throat."

John chuckled at the commanding tone, but complied heartily. Sherlock hummed in contentment and spread his legs wider for John to have better access. The doctor caressed the soft hole delicately, stroking until it was twitching under his touch and Sherlock's moans turned to threatening growls. Only then did he put his other hand on Sherlock's lower belly and say:

"Breathe in here, now."

Sherlock ignored the fact that this sounded very much like an order and obliged. As he did, he felt John's middle finger deliberately enter him.

"Could you make it any slower?" he groaned to dispel his unease. John smiled and resumed his kisses and caresses while he fingered his partner. Distracting Sherlock with many pleasurable sensations proved to be quite effective and reassured John greatly. Feeling more confident, he continued his ministrations for a while, relishing the way Sherlock was gradually growing hard again and noticing that he was, too.

"Jooohn... John! Enough already!"

"But this is just the beginning."

And it was. John traced a nipple, pinched the other, blew on Sherlock's neck as he arched his back to the touch, tickled his thigh and crotch, brushed his hip... He teased. By now he knew exactly how to set Sherlock's body on fire, even if he was sure there were still many areas to be explored.

Apart from the hipbone and the side of the throat, John had noticed a few other peculiar erogenous spots: the wrists and the middle of the palm, the small of the back and the coccyx, the lower belly... He set to stimulate all of them and many more, and whenever he saw Sherlock's hard-on was becoming too painful, released him skilfully. Every time Sherlock came, his grip on John tightened painfully and if his mouth was anywhere near John's flesh, he bit into it. John noticed Sherlock was becoming more and more careful not to hurt him too much in the process. He was touched, although he found Sherlock's biting rather lovely.

In fact, all of Sherlock's reactions were endearing to John. He was so sensitive it was a pleasure to touch him in the simplest ways. Gradually, the several ejaculations helping, Sherlock relaxed. Each time he came, John felt him tighten around his fingers – two, now – and in the afterglow he could feel Sherlock's sphincter muscle slacken around them. Each time, he spread more lube all over the area and on his fingers before penetrating Sherlock again.

At some point the detective stopped complaining about John taking so long and just let his partner stretch him more and more. He was losing track of time. The shadows cast by the candlelight were swaying around them, lulling him to a state of blissful ecstasy.

The more he loosened up, the more intense was the pleasure he felt. He ceased to care about where they were going and simply basked in the sensations John was giving him now. As he did not want to enjoy this selfishly, he tried to pleasure John several times, but John always escaped his hand, kissing him, caressing him, teasing and cosseting him. Sherlock thought that perhaps, John wanted to keep his hard-on until he could enter him, and so he gave up after a while.

He could not tell how long John had been touching him, kissing him and nuzzling him when he started trembling. He blinked, not understanding at first why his body was shaking. He wasn't cold, nor scared, nor anxious. He felt incredibly good and craved more, more, more... _Oh_. A delirious chuckle escaped his lips.

John had managed to make him tremble with sheer desire. This intense sense of thrill, this unquenched thirst, the profound _lust_ that was boosting his brain and expanding his mind palace in ways he would never have thought of alone, was now making his body quiver with unrestrainable anticipation.

"John," he murmured.

John's free hand came to cup his cheek and a pair of lips kissed his chin.

"Are you all right? You're trembling."

"I want you. Now."

John's eyes widened as Sherlock's words went right to his crotch. He groaned. His fingers inside Sherlock kept massaging, titillating, yet were strangely soothing. Until now John had avoided any direct touch to the prostate. But this time, to release Sherlock, he pressed his two fingers on it. Sherlock's hands clenched and he bit down at John's throat as he came with a muffled cry. But once the orgasmic spasms had died down, he was still trembling.

"John. I want you."

"You have me," John assured him in a placating tone.

"More."

"Yes, just a bit more. Isn't this good, though? I am in you already."

John was so focused on not giving in and shagging Sherlock senseless _right now_ that he missed the feral glint that lit in his lover's pupils. Sherlock felt like he was burning from the inside and John was refusing to give him water. He growled threateningly.

"Hey, calm down. I'm here, it's me. We can stop whenever you want," John murmured, completely misunderstanding the signs. His erection brushed against Sherlock's thigh. That was the last straw.

With a sudden, forceful jolt, Sherlock spun them around, completely ignoring his injured arm, knocked John over, and pinned him to the floor with a violence that completely staggered the doctor. He didn't have time to ask what in the world Sherlock thought he was doing, for the taller man abruptly impaled himself on John, up to the hilt.

John cried out and Sherlock gasped, the searing pain winding him. Somewhere in his mind, he'd known it would hurt, but he hadn't given it a thought. Even now, as he was struggling against the stupor that threatened to overwhelm him, he could not care less about any damage done to his body. All he knew was that he wanted more, more, _more_.

"Sherlock!" John finally shouted once he had found his voice. The violence and the abruptness of Sherlock's gesture had only enhanced the pleasure John felt: he could never have guessed how _good_ being in Sherlock would feel. But this was definitely beside the point. "Move, now!" he ordered, the doctor in him terribly worried about the state of Sherlock's anal canal. The pressure and the intensity of the pleasure it provided prevented John from feeling whether Sherlock was bleeding or not. "Sherlock, move!" he repeated with some difficulty, fearing he'd come any minute.

"I'll move, I'll move! Just give me a second," Sherlock grumbled, trying to adjust to the foreign sensation.

"No, Sherlock, I meant get off!" And at Sherlock's surprised and pained expression, John quickly added: "You're hurting yourself!"

This time, John saw the feral glow lighting up the detective's eyes. The pale blue irises had been swallowed by the black pupils. His lips were parted, but his teeth clenched as if it helped dealing with the pain. His heaving chest was glistening with sweat. In the soft candlelight Sherlock was shining, blazing with an ardour John hadn't thought him capable of. Not in such a situation. Not during sex.

Sherlock's vision was blurry and John's words only echoed in the distance. He felt dizzy from the pain, the heat, the lust. Regardless of how much it hurt, still the craving was so acute it almost made the itching worse than the ache. His body was still trembling with longing, an avidity for John's flesh that prompted Sherlock to lean and lick John's chest up to a nipple. He bit it.

John cried out.

"Sherlock, please! I'm begging you, get o–"

His voice shattered into another scream as Sherlock held him down by the waist, slid up, and thrust down again.

"Sherlock!" John wailed.

But his cries only stirred up Sherlock's excitement. John's hoarse voice, his erratic breathing, his hardened nipples, his glazed over eyes... Sherlock wanted more of it all, wanted to devour him with desperation. His hands glided up John's torso possessively, kneading and pinching and stroking to arouse. His touch was far from gentle and his kisses alternated with bites and licks, making John feel like some very appetizing meal.

"Please, Sherlock, I'll..."

But as he met Sherlock's blazing gaze, he knew all words would be ineffective. Sherlock was hurting himself because he wanted something and no longer gave a damn. The only way to reach him now was to give him what he wanted.

John's face broke into a challenging grin. He pulled Sherlock down into a bruising kiss, piercing him with his tongue, running his hands through his curls damp with perspiration and bucking his hips. Sherlock moaned into the kiss and John sneaked a hand down his torso to tease his leaking erection. This distracted the detective enough for John to suddenly reverse their positions, rolling them around and pinning Sherlock to the floor. Sherlock cried out in surprise and frenetically grabbed the leash to pull John down, glaring at him heatedly. John chuckled.

"You're a real beast, you know that?" he purred.

Sherlock growled and writhed to impale himself further, wishing to get more of the titillating sensation he'd got a glimpse of. He wrapped his legs around John to prevent him from going anywhere.

"I won't be able to move in you if you hold me so tightly," John teased, breathless.

Sherlock gave an irritated groan and slackened his grip a little, enough for John to move back up. Sherlock puled in pain and frustration.

Very carefully, John slid a hand between Sherlock's legs and grabbed the base of his own shaft to orient it slightly differently. With his other hand, he gently caressed his lover's entrance.

"The tissues around and inside your anus are very sensitive and prone to tear easily," he murmured. Sherlock's glower told him he did not care much for the doctor's lecture. With a tender smile, John slid in again at an agonizingly slow pace, aiming at the prostate. When he hit it, Sherlock jolted and gasped for air, then bucked his hips furiously, trying to get more.

"John..." he growled, pulling on the leash.

John smirked and thrust in again, eliciting a wanton moan from his partner.

"More," Sherlock demanded.

John thrust in again.

"More!" Sherlock insisted, his tone commanding as ever. John complied, this time also wrapping his hand around Sherlock's shaft and pumping alternately with his thrusts. He was starting to see stars, the pleasure too intense, the sensations overwhelming and delightfully enhanced by the certainty that Sherlock was enjoying this too. It felt like a dance, like each and every movement, bite, caress and kiss was meant to be, yet was given spontaneously. They were building the dance with each thrust and each cry, creating it in the rhythm and the beat they imposed on the world as they moved together, unrestrained. A whirl of incandescence and fervour.

Sherlock felt like he was hovering over an abyss, waltzing on a thin, thin string above bottomless chasms. Around him the shadows were dancing with the candlelight, flickering, rippling in unison. He could feel John's body against him, in him and around him, his presence pervading the room and inviting him to come along in an infinite expansion. The Union Jack cushion sparkled with secret fireworks in the shimmering glow of the candles, and on the mantelpiece the skull grinned, winking down at them. It was their world, strange and familiar all at once, whose downy glimmer surrounded them. But it was also a world of darkness and fire, a world in which John's body gleamed and set Sherlock alight.

He would have to admit later that John had a better idea of what he was doing than Sherlock. Each of John's thrust elicited a cry, a moan or a whimper; each time it sent galvanizing currents throughout Sherlock's body and straight to his brain. Feverishly, he pulled John down to him once more, shortening the leash, and nibbled his earlobe. Licking down John's throat, embracing him tightly, he unwittingly rubbed their nipples together and gasped from the exquisite friction. He was almost sitting now, wrapped around John, John's hand on the small of his back, the other on his hipbone, holding him, keeping him in place to always hit the same intoxicating spot with every thrust.

Fear was flirting with lust, and agony with ecstasy. Sherlock could feel the tension building like the adrenaline during a chase through London, like the thrill of putting his life on the line and triumph through cleverness, like so many things he knew and yet so different...

And suddenly the explosion.

Sherlock arched his back and felt his whole body tense at once before shattering into a scream that unveiled the night, joining the shadows and shimmers in their dance. The kick was stronger than anything he'd ever experienced with cocaine. All the muscles that he'd clenched at his apex suddenly slackened and he was propelled to a higher sea, in a higher world. He pulled on the leash, brought his partner's lips to his, and let out in a whisper: "John."

Feeling Sherlock clench around him, Sherlock come in his hand and all over their stomachs, Sherlock whisper his name against his lips pushed John over the edge. He tried to move to avoid exploding inside him, but Sherlock's last gesture had been so unexpected, so poignant that John had been thrown off balance. Like Sherlock, he fell into the abyss, and like Sherlock he suddenly found himself flying high above everything they'd ever known. He kissed him back desperately, passionately, as if it were the first and last time.

The craving had swayed Sherlock beyond the pain, making it waltz with pleasure like the glints of candlelight with the shadows of the room. Now the fluid suddenly filling him was washing away both pleasure and pain, leaving a profound sense of contentment and exhaustion. Sherlock felt it from above, like a mountain sensing the waves of the sea at its feet. But soon this image was replaced with that of a volcano in his mind, as he felt the wetness and sheer warmth truly _inside_ him, like hot lava. His grip on John tightened and he buried his face in the crook of his partner's neck, kissing him there, trying to enhance John's pleasure until the very end.

John rode his orgasm and they remained there for a while, in the same position, completely knocked out. John was caressing Sherlock's head as if it were what his hands had been made for and Sherlock was trying to catch his breath, resting his head on John's shoulder. Then suddenly he broke into a fit of soft, quiet giggles. John smirked, wondering what marvelous after-sex-word Sherlock had found this time. The detective's eyes were twinkling when he whispered in John's ear:

"That... was amazing."

John could only concur.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

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**.**

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_tbc_


	28. Caring 2

A.N: If you enjoy reading this story, if you think it should be fixed, or if you think it's execrable and shouldn't be allowed, please review! All reviewers are loved :)

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**xXx**

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* * *

**Chapter 28: Caring 2**

* * *

.

.

The room was dark; the light, bleak. A neon, probably. John didn't know. He could not move his head. Not up and down, not from side to side. Not at all. All he could do was look at the table in the middle of the room, where a man was lying.

Sherlock.

He was just lying there, still and naked. John felt a surge of anguish rush up his chest and throat and almost choke him because he was gagged and couldn't scream. Couldn't call his name. Sherlock was still and naked. Like dead people in a mortuary.

Fortunately, he soon came to with a groan, bringing his pale hand to his head. John could almost see it throb from where he was sitting. He wasn't very far, but too far to reach him. And John couldn't move.

Sherlock could, and did. Slowly he sat up, blinded by the light despite its greyish dimness. Under it, Sherlock's white limbs looked grey, too. But his eyes were blue when they stopped on John. Before he could say his name, however, the shadow of a man emerged from the darkness, his teeth shining in the gloom as he walked towards the neon light.

If John had not been so tightly bound, he would have killed this man with his bare hands. He didn't give a damn about the gun that was being held against his head. Even with a bullet in his brain he was dead certain that he would have ripped the man limb by limb, so intense was the loathing he felt burning him from the inside in this instant.

"Hello, sunshine," Moriarty said with a grin – addressing Sherlock, of course, and completely ignoring John.

Sherlock turned his eyes to him and glared.

"What do you want?"

"Aw, come on. Don't take me for an idiot. _I_ don't take you for an idiot. I know you've already guessed," Moriarty purred, running his hand down the detective's exposed chest all the way to his legs, and parting his thighs. Sherlock tensed.

"I don't guess," he said blankly.

"Good." Moriarty nodded and parted Sherlock's legs wider.

Sherlock glared as the muscles of his legs tightened and refused to be touched so casually. John felt the gun being pressed to his head. He didn't care. Apparently, Sherlock did. Moriarty's grin widened.

"Come on, be good. You don't want our guest to be disappointed now, do you?"

**_Guest? _**John seethed. Was _he_ the guest? He was hit by a wave of nausea – the first of many to come. The warmth of the man's body standing beside him was making him queasier with every passing second. On the table before him, Sherlock's pearly grey body appeared to be made of ice and ashes. It looked so cold.

"Fine."

Sherlock's voice didn't break the silence; it thickened it. John struggled and struggled, but no one noticed, no one was paying any attention to him at all. If a gun hadn't been so obviously pointed against his head, he might have thought himself invisible. Right now though, all he wished was for the hateful man and his minion to disappear. He wouldn't mind exterminating the both of them.

"Now, that's a good boy," Moriarty commented with satisfaction, playing with one of Sherlock's curls. John's chest heaved with rage. **_Mine_,** he thought. **_Not yours_.**

"How do you want me?" Sherlock asked in an empty voice in which resounded the silence.

**_No, stop it, just stop it!_** John screamed in his head.

"Well, you'll have to show me this, if you want anything up into it," Moriarty remarked nonchalantly, parting Sherlock's legs wider and wider and staring at his entrance pointedly. This time, Sherlock did not stop him.

As he watched Sherlock spread his legs for his nemesis – a big, bare rag doll being played with by a fully dressed man – John thought that perhaps choking to death on his own vomit because the gag would prevent him from throwing up wasn't such a bad prospect after all. Except it would change nothing for Sherlock.

Would it?

What would happen to him once John was dead and he could no longer be used as his weak point? Would Moriarty become bored and let him go? Would he continue?

...Would he kill him?

But what John was witnessing now was horrible enough for even the grimmest prospects to feel surreal. The present was too gripping, the aversion and the dread too vivid to be coupled with any vision of the future at all. And all John could do was watch as nausea rose stronger and stronger in his chest.

"Won't you touch yourself for me now, beauty?"

Sherlock's gaze sharpened.

"Not in front of him."

"Oh _please_. He's the only thing in this room that can potentially turn you on. Why would you want him out?"

"Just take him out."

"Are you giving me orders, baby?"

"Please."

"That's better. But really not good enough."

And with those words he violently turned Sherlock around, smashed his face into the table, and pinned him down with just one hand. Sherlock was as meek as a sheep.

"I was trying to be nice, you know. But you're not making any effort, _darling_."

**_No! Don't you dare take my voice. Don't you dare take my tone, my words, my... my... GET YOUR HANDS OFF HIM!_**

And yet all John did was sit there and watch. Watch as Moriarty simply poked Sherlock's buttocks until the detective got the message and raised it, trembling.

"That's better," Moriarty encouraged him, patting his rump as if he were a horse. "Yes, just like this. That's good. You're a quick learner. Or has the good doctor trained you?"

"Take him out of the room. I promise I'll do better still. Please..."

Moriarty burst out laughing and gave Sherlock a gleeful spank. Sherlock did not react, but John was sure he had seen him grit his teeth at the touch. The nausea was building inside him, yet seemed to be just another torture, for it wouldn't rise up his throat. It was only teasing him, never actually bursting so he would choke to death. Would they even let him anyway?

John was thinking he couldn't feel any sicker when he suddenly realized what was in Moriarty's hand: a dildo. John retched.

Moriarty began simply caressing Sherlock's thighs and buttocks with the dildo, apparently relishing every shiver that escaped the detective despite his best efforts not to let anything out. John could tell. It only made the nausea worse and he begged a God he didn't really believe in that this would stop, all stop, right _now_.

"Ooh, your little soldier is getting all excited over there. We shouldn't make him wait any longer now, should we?"

"Please take him out," Sherlock tried one last time, his voice weaker. Or perhaps it was just muffled because of his position.

"What, just when the best part of the show is about to start? How cruel of you! Turn him on and then leave him there unsatisfied... But that's just like you, isn't it? You like to play. You like to manipulate."

**_Turn me on? _**John was furious. **_How could this possibly turn me on, you sick, twisted MANIAC?!_**

But just as he thought this he felt it. His hard-on. His heart missed a beat and his eyes widened in horror. Moriarty turned to him with a huge, huge grin, before suddenly plunging the dildo between Sherlock's trembling buttocks. Sherlock screamed. He must have still been loose from the previous night, for his scream wasn't so much one of pain as one of pleasure mingled with shame and despair. It was a terrible scream.

"How do you like it?" Moriarty inquired, amusement in his tone, completely unfazed at Sherlock's torment. He turned to John as if he were only doing all of this for him, and asked with a mocking smile: "And what about you, Johnny boy? Getting your kicks all right?"

As Moriarty broke into chilling laughter, John's retching turned into a gasp and he opened his eyes to the whiteness of the sheet.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

When Sherlock opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a brownish, appetizing nipple mere inches from his face. He blinked, and did the only natural thing to do: he kissed it.

Not quite alert yet, Sherlock did not even stop to think whose nipple that might be – it could only be John's, after all; could never have been anyone else's – nor did he wonder why it was there. It just was, half-erect and enticing, and soon Sherlock couldn't help but start to nibble and suckle, gently at first, then none too gently as he got hungrier.

Suddenly he remembered the previous night and stopped at once. A sense of wonder filled him. What was he doing? Perplexed, he moved back a little and stared at John's heaving chest. His face broke into a smirk.

After he'd fallen exhausted on the duvet and sheet spread across their living room's floor, Sherlock had hoped they could just lie there all night. But of course John had insisted that they move to a bed, or they would be very sore in the morning. Naturally, Sherlock had known he would be sore in the morning anyway. He'd grumbled, and had refused to move an inch.

"_I don't want to," _he'd moaned drowsily.

"_Come on, I have to get out of you at least."_

"_I don't want that either," _Sherlock had groaned, pressing John closer to make his point. Having John in him was ridiculously comfortable. Moreover, Sherlock was well aware that moving and losing John's warmth inside of him would inevitably lead to acute pain eventually, and he wasn't very keen on feeling that any time soon.

But John, who had understood his reluctance, had kissed him and murmured that it would definitely hurt the both of them much more if they were to stay like this all night. This argument, which was in fact a good one, and John's caresses, had finally convinced Sherlock. He'd let his friend slide out of him. But he'd refused to let him go any farther.

Still John had sneaked out of the embrace, taken off the collar and the leash and blown out all the candles before wrapping Sherlock in the sheet and duvet, endeavouring to drag him to the room like a big sack of potatoes – which had not pleased Sherlock very much. So he'd glared at his partner and after a while John had just left him there, halfway to the room in which he'd gone himself. It had not taken Sherlock very long to join him, although he'd still been muttering sullenly when he fell onto the bed next to John, wrapped in the sheet and duvet, and not offering to share. John had been too upsetting after all.

In the end, John had managed to sneak under the duvet close to Sherlock, and the detective hadn't been upset enough to deny him that.

Now as he caressed John's chest pensively, Sherlock could not help but marvel at the fact that the warmth was still there. He did not dare move yet, for he knew it would hurt. He didn't mind the pain so much; after all, he was already experiencing it in his injured arm, which he had rather neglected the previous night. But he wasn't especially impatient to experience more pain in another area of his body. Not to mention that John might feel sorry about it; and this, Sherlock certainly did not want.

John's breathing was rather ragged, so Sherlock tried to soothe him with caresses and soon, his mouth was back on the tantalizing nipple. He smiled as he felt John gradually harden against him and let his hands roam lower and lower. Suddenly John retched and awoke with a gasp, jolting. Sherlock jumped back, surprised, and sat up.

"John! What's wrong?"

Turning literally green, John mumbled an apology and pushed him back. He darted out of the room and into the bathroom where Sherlock heard him throw up. The consulting detective was astonished. Had _he_ just caused this? Quickly, without bothering to put anything on, he rushed to the bathroom as well and knelt down by John's side, ignoring the burning pain in his lower back, patting John's shoulder awkwardly, at a complete loss. He didn't know how to take care of people. Never had to.

As he threw up the rest of what was left in his stomach, John kept gasping. His hands were trembling with something akin to horror and disgust, and all in all Sherlock could not decipher whether he was experiencing upset digestion or a panic attack. He brought his other hand to John's front and rested it on his chest, trying to help him regulate his breathing. But this only seemed to make John even more disgusted and soon Sherlock knelt back, befuddled. So he really was the cause of all this?

Once John had emptied his stomach – which didn't take long, even though to Sherlock it never seemed to end – the doctor stood, rinsed his mouth many times, washed his face, and finally began to breathe evenly again. Sherlock just knelt there, knocked out by the realization that obviously, it was his touch that had made John feel sick.

He tried to shake the horrible thought out of his head and stood up as well.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I'd like to take a shower."

"Do you want me to hel–"

"Alone."

To John, this was the nice way to say: 'Get out.' He was so ashamed and disgusted with himself that he did not even dare look at his lover, not even at his reflection in the mirror in front of him. His gaze remained cast down, and so he missed the sheer pain that flashed across Sherlock's eyes.

Without a word, Sherlock complied. He stepped back, out, and closed the door quietly. He was cold. He stood there a moment, numb, until the searing pain in his lower back conduced him to move. Slowly, he went back to the room and wrapped himself in the already fouled sheet. The soft linen that had been warm just a minute ago was not as cold as his body. He barely felt it against his skin as he walked back down the corridor, listening to the buzz of the shower. He stopped in front of the bathroom door, leant against the wall, and waited.

He wished he could be in the shower too, under hot water, to get warmer and cleaner. The pain was quite distracting. Still, John showering gave Sherlock time to get a hold of himself. He became aware that since the Basement, he had been far too quick in his deducing, and often had come to the wrong conclusion because of fear.

He did not find anything attractive in his own body, and couldn't see why any sane man would; since John was in love with him, John did desire him, and it was all chemistry... but it also meant Sherlock had little power over it.

Consequently, he was terrified that one day John would stop being so infatuated with him and would see him for what he was. Naturally, he was also aware that this was some stupid insecurity due to the trauma. Just like when John had been kidnapped. Sherlock had been terrified that John would leave him after all, and so he'd come to this conclusion _because he feared it,_ and had been completely fooled by Mycroft. Yesterday, he had been terrified again of losing John, since the doctor was now aware that Sherlock had manipulated him. And now, he was terrified that John would be disgusted with him after all, disgusted with himself too, perhaps, for having given in to such feral, basic instincts, and slept with a man.

Sherlock closed his eyes in concentration. Fear was a strange feeling. It was deep and gut-wrenching, something beating in the pit of your stomach. Something you could ignore, but which kept beating nonetheless. It wasn't a good fear either, vibrant and exciting and _thrilling_, like he felt sometimes during chases and dangerous confrontations with criminals. It was a sudden surge of hope that only made the threatening despair more acute – something irrational that Sherlock was unable to evaluate. Something that prevented him from thinking properly.

So as he waited by the bathroom door, not daring to move for fear that John would run away to get some air or to never come back before they could talk, Sherlock thought. He thought of John's reactions the previous night, and concluded that if he had only started to feel disgusted about what they'd done this morning, then he was very slow because he'd had plenty of time to realize his situation while putting all the candles out, dragging Sherlock to the room, giving up to tease him, waiting in bed for him, and finally sneaking under the duvet to snuggle up to him. Even John couldn't be that slow. Could he?

Then Sherlock thought about the heaving chest and wondered if he hadn't mistaken nightmare for arousal. John's breathing had been irregular even before Sherlock had started to touch him – well, perhaps not before he'd kissed and suckled his nipple the first time. Sherlock was still sleepy at that time and hadn't paid much attention to John's breathing.

But then he had touched John, and John hadn't seemed to hate it in the least. He'd got aroused. In fact, now that Sherlock thought about it, what he intended to be soothing at first probably hadn't been very soothing at all, but rather teasing. Could it be that it had only made John's nightmare worse? But Sherlock couldn't even be sure that there had been a nightmare in the first place...

_I lack data_, he concluded with frustration, gritting his teeth. All he could do now was wait. And Sherlock hated to wait – especially when he had neither control nor insight on what was going to happen.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

_I'm unbelievable_, John was thinking relentlessly. _And disgusting_. There was no way to justify what he'd done. His dream had brought him back right to square one, that square he had refused to acknowledge after the Basement for Sherlock's sake. Because there were more urgent matters, such as convincing Sherlock that it was all right, that they could still live with this, together. But there was no denying the fact that John had got aroused from his friend being tortured. Of course he knew the guilt was all part of Moriarty's plan to break Sherlock, but how could John deny the obvious facts?

Knowing that he was in love with Sherlock – badly – did not help. John shivered under the ice cold shower. Love was no excuse. And even if he was an idiot, it didn't take a genius to realize that there was something wrong, very wrong with the dream he'd had.

_And what about the relationship itself?_ John mused gloomily. During all these months they had lived together, not once had Sherlock expressed the desire to be involved with John romantically or sexually. Quite the contrary, in fact, and in very clear terms too. And then after the trauma he would have suddenly started to want him? This did not make any sense, or if it did, it could only point to one thing: that John had taken advantage of the situation, even if unwittingly, to save himself from shame as he tried to save Sherlock from it, by making things official between them and act as if all this was normal.

_No!_ he told himself forcefully, shaking his head in despair. _That's not how it went!_ Wasn't it? Why did he get aroused when Sherlock was being _tortured _in the Basement? John swallowed with difficulty. He needed a clear head to sort things out, but right now he was so repulsed by his own attitude that he could not avoid the overwhelming sense of self-loathing. He could not shake off the impression that he was using Sherlock in the most horrible way. So he just waited under the icy water until his erection had completely died away and he was shaking from the cold. Then he got out of the shower, put on his bathrobe, and opened the door.

Sherlock was waiting in front of him, leaning on the wall. He must have been staring at the door the whole time, for the first thing John met upon opening it was his friend's intense gaze. He shivered.

"Why didn't you dress?"

"I'd like to take a shower."

"But it's cold. You could've put on your blue gown."

"I know you find it ugly, John, but I wouldn't want to soil it."

John blanched, realization hitting him. His eyes stopped on the dark stains over the sheet, which indicated more pain than pleasure.

"Oh God Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

How could he have forgotten Sherlock's condition? It had completely slipped his mind while he was berating himself for his lack of morals... How ironic.

"Does it hurt?"

_What do you think?_ Sherlock thought with annoyance. "I'm fine."

"You can't possibly be fine after–"

"I said I'm fine, John. I will just take a shower and be perfectly cl–"

He was interrupted by John hugging him tightly, and froze in the embrace. A loud beat was hammering between them, in them, in the chest of one of them or in both. Sherlock could not tell.

"You've taken a shower," he pointed out quietly.

"Mm," John acknowledged, wordless.

"You're going to be dirty all over again."

"You're not dirty."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I did not mean it in any metaphysical sense, John."

John's embrace tightened an instant before he let go and stepped back. Sherlock was horrified to see something broken in his eyes. But just as soon John shook his head and it was gone.

"I need to examine you."

"What?" Sherlock asked absentmindedly. His brain had just registered how cold John was, drenched in icy water, and was presently figuring out what it could mean. That is, why John would want to take a cold shower, which automatically led to 'erection', and then to 'why would he have an erection?' and 'could it be linked to his dream, or to my touch?' and finally 'was it the discrepancy between the dream _and_ my touch that made him sick?' He was listing the several possible answers to the latter two questions when John repeated:

"I need to examine you to see how much damage you've done to your body."

"Right. Wait, _no_. I said I'm fine."

"And I said you're not."

"Oh, and of course you'd know better about my own body."

"I'm a doctor."

"I know when I'm in need of medical attention, John."

"And I know you're hurt!" John insisted. Then he added with a softer voice: "Please. Won't you just come in the bathroom and let me have a look?"

Sherlock fixed his eyes on John for a moment. He saw the concern of a doctor and the dedication of a friend. It was funny that John would completely forget his own issues, whatever these were, to only care for Sherlock. What Sherlock also saw there was an opportunity. It took him approximately three seconds to make up his mind.

"Fine."

John let out a sigh of relief and leant in spontaneously to kiss Sherlock, but stopped himself at the last moment and quickly walked back into the bathroom. Not quickly enough, however, to prevent Sherlock from seeing his pained gaze again. The detective's eyes turned to slits as he watched his partner's back. He followed him in and let the sheet fall to the floor as he expeditiously bent over the sink to get the examination over with.

Resolutely ignoring how embarrassing this was, he focused on the coldness of John's hands in order to think about the problem at hand – and by that he did not mean the state of his anal membrane. After a while John grumbled something and cursed, and with a caress told Sherlock that he could stand up again. Sherlock was so surprised by the gesture that he turned towards his friend, who seemed to realize only then that he had stroked the detective, and fumbled:

"You'll have to take a butt bath."

Sherlock blinked.

"A _what_?"

"A butt bath. It means you sit in lukewarm water, ideally with antiseptic soap."

"You're joking."

"I'm really not."

"_No_."

"Sherlock..."

"You want me to sit and _wait_ in a bathtub doing _nothing_?"

John sighed in exasperation.

"Look, you're the one who went all wild and suddenly thought it was a good idea to..."

He trailed off, gulped, and stepped back. His face fell.

"I'm sorry. I'll just go and get some antiseptic soap."

"But I don't want to take a bath," Sherlock groaned, now definitely seeing an opening and intent on not missing his chance.

"Don't be ridiculous! You just said you wanted to take a shower."

"Yes, but not a bath."

John stared. Sherlock thought he should move on and stop pushing his luck.

"If you take a shower with me first, I'll take a bath afterwards," he offered. "I need assistance with showering anyway, remember?" he said, pointing to his bandaged arm. Then, tilting his head to the side, he added: "I'll even let you wash my hair if you want."

John gaped in disbelief.

"God, how old _are_ you?"

But since Sherlock was still very seriously waiting for an answer, John shook his head and gave in.

"I'll get the soap and be right back."

Sherlock was so glad he had to repress a triumphant smirk. He was still terrified and felt like he was walking on thin ice, but he was determined to get John to talk. And when supplementary data was needed, Sherlock was quite unscrupulous as to the means to get it.

When John came back, Sherlock's eyes fell on the bottle he had brought down. As he stepped inside the bathtub, he commented:

"It's new."

"What?" John asked, puzzlement in his voice.

"The antiseptic soap."

John looked at the bottle, then at his friend, and shrugged before taking off his bathrobe and following him in.

"Yes," he confirmed.

"Did you buy it for... this?" Sherlock inquired more hesitantly, not so sure of the brilliancy of his plan now that John's cold body was so close to his.

"Yes," John replied without looking at him. "But for me."

He could feel Sherlock's questioning gaze, so as he turned the water on, he developed:

"I thought you might want to do it, but the other way around. And if one day we both got into the mood, I didn't want us to... you know, give it up just because we didn't have the right things."

"You mean you could imagine us both wanting it... you could imagine _you_ wanting it the other way around?"

"I don't know. Here, the temperature's good I think."

"Too cold."

"But it's not cold."

"Not warm enough, then."

"It _is_ warm, Sherlock."

"Then make it hot. You're frozen."

John was certainly about to protest when Sherlock turned up the hot water himself and oriented the shower head towards his smaller friend.

"That's _too_ hot!" John exclaimed.

"It's really not. You're just too cold."

Sherlock was, of course, right. Soon the water stopped burning John and he felt his body get warmer and warmer. Slowly, with a gesture tinged with tentativeness and not devoid of a certain gentleness, Sherlock turned John around so the smaller man would be leaning back against the tiled wall, and rested the shower head on the nape of his neck. The liquid warmth sent a shiver down John's spine and he sighed, closing his eyes and trying to block away all images of Sherlock screaming under neon lights.

"Better?" Sherlock asked.

"Much better," John admitted. _As far as the cold is concerned. _Sherlock smiled and discreetly moved closer to his friend. "But you have to get under the water too," John went on. "_I_ already took a shower after all."

Sherlock moved closer and held the shower above their heads, angled so that the water would not fall on his bandage.

"Why was it cold?"

"Mm?"

"Your shower."

A glint of suspicion traversed John's gaze, but it did not linger.

"To wake myself up. Here, let me take care of this."

Gently, he took the shower from Sherlock and moved it over his friend's torso. "Turn around," he murmured, and Sherlock complied. As he felt the warmth spread across his back, he wondered whether this position would make John more comfortable and less self-conscious. Perhaps this was a good time.

"What was your nightmare about?" he asked, as quietly as John had told him to turn around. The movement of the shower head came to a halt and Sherlock could positively feel John stiffen from the tension it conveyed to the water through the shower he was holding.

Sherlock turned back, facing a frozen John and blatantly moving closer to him until he was holding him against the wall. There was just enough distance between them for the detective to look his partner in the eye.

"It was a nightmare, wasn't it?" he asked in his deep baritone voice.

"Yes," John murmured, as if mesmerized.

"Was I in it?"

"Yes," John continued, a hint of despair in his voice, but still in a trance and somehow compelled to answer Sherlock's questions.

"Did it disgust you?"

"Yes," John replied even more weakly. Then he saw the pain in Sherlock's gaze and his eyes widened in horror. "No! Not in _that_ way... It's not what you think! I wasn't repelled by _you_."

Sherlock intentionally averted his gaze, and intensified his pained expression. Of course, this was just acting for the sake of making John talk and reveal everything about his dream. There was no real pain. Sherlock wasn't scared in the least. The fear he was displaying on his features was not real. Not at all.

Even if it was it did not matter, for in any case Sherlock rejected this awareness to the periphery of his consciousness, only to focus on John, and John alone. There was no time to analyze his own reactions. It was irrelevant.

For a moment, John just stood there, voiceless. Then Sherlock looked up and their eyes locked.

As if on cue, the words started falling from John's lips in an irrepressible flow, sometimes tumbling over each other, sometimes interrupted with long pauses, as John sought to find his voice again. He told Sherlock everything; he depicted the dream in its every detail. The nausea swelled up in his chest again but he ignored it. His gaze remained cast down the whole time, his fists clenched and sometimes trembling. Sherlock had a right to hear this and to realize how wrong it was, yet John could not bring himself to observe his reactions and see the pain fill his clear pupils – pain, and perhaps, even a sense of betrayal. So he stared at Sherlock's chest while he recounted his nightmare, desperately wishing that he could embrace his friend and just listen to his heart beating. But he really had no right.

The words fell from John's mouth like the water from the shower head, relentless. But John found no release in it. And suddenly it stopped. He had told Sherlock everything.

John closed his eyes for a second, gathering his courage. Then he looked up into his partner's eyes.

Sherlock's gaze was unreadable. Perhaps he'd had the time to hide whatever emotion had flickered on his features, or they had died out long ago already. John found himself facing the clearest eyes he'd ever seen on Sherlock, and stared in amazement. He could make no sense of it.

Finally, a small smile twitched at the corner of the detective's lips, and a sense of relief graced his face. John seemed even more confused. Deliberately, Sherlock leant in, closer and closer, and suddenly kissed John on the nose. John's eyes widened. His lips parted in bewilderment and Sherlock took the chance to kiss him and slip his tongue in. This was just too much.

"What in the world?!" John exclaimed, pushing his partner back, completely lost.

Sherlock sighed.

"So you would rather do the talking first. Fine."

"Were you even listening to me just now?! Didn't you... I..."

John was terribly frustrated that Sherlock seemed to completely disregard the issue he'd had such a hard time acknowledging himself.

"Of course. I think I liked it better when you had nightmares about the war. I certainly do not like Moriarty slipping into your dreams in any way – but then again, you are more responsible for this than he is."

"_Excuse me?_"

Sherlock frowned.

"It is your dream after all."

John blanched.

"I get it," he said, trying to get out of the bathtub, more disgusted with himself than ever.

"No you don't," Sherlock cut in, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him back forcefully, pinning him against the wall. "It was just a dream, John."

"But I reacted in the same way in the Basement! And that was real, Sherlock, very real."

"Was it? I really hadn't noticed," Sherlock answered dryly. John fell quiet. "There is something that has completely escaped you."

"Is there?" John replied bitterly. "Enlighten me, then."

Sherlock scowled, but thought he should be tolerant. John had forgiven him many an attitude after all.

"I want you to picture your dream again – exactly as you remember it. From the beginning."

John stared, speechless. Sherlock insisted: "Do it."

"But–"

"Please." He pressed John's arm and pinned him with his gaze. "Trust me."

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

_tbc_


	29. Dreaming

**A.N.: **Thank you to all readers who have the patience to wait for my updates, and especially to all of you who take the time to review! I really do appreciate it. Hope you enjoy this chapter! :)

**.**

**xXx**

**.**

.

.

* * *

**Chapter 29: Dreaming**

* * *

.

.

"I want you to picture your dream again – exactly as you remember it. From the beginning."

John stared, speechless. Sherlock insisted: "Do it."

"But–"

"Please." He pressed John's arm and pinned him with his gaze. "Trust me."

There had always been something about Sherlock – his voice, perhaps; his gaze, his scent, his gestures, _all of him_ – that made John do whatever Sherlock told him to do. John would come from the other side of London just to send a text and would even forgive the detective. He always did. And probably always would. Sherlock was endowed with a peculiar charisma that did not allow for any resistance, or that rendered it pointless. John, charmed, would always give in.

But this was not simply fascination. The admiration was coupled with a profound respect and a fundamental trust in the consulting detective; in his deductive abilities, of course, but in him as a man, too.

So after having met Sherlock's intense gaze, John let down his hand that was holding the shower, closed his eyes, and complied. It was easy enough, for he was still haunted by the images of his nightmare.

"Now I want you to alter one thing, just one thing."

John nodded curtly, already feeling nausea tighten his throat.

"Picture me completely unresponsive."

John was so startled he opened his eyes. Upon meeting Sherlock's frown, however, he closed them again, and just listened to his friend.

"Imagine the whole scene without me feeling any pleasure at all – even a much unwanted one. You can replace it with pain or with a lack of reaction, it's not essential. But you _must_ erase all signs of pleasure."

John shut his eyes tighter and gritted his teeth. Nausea swelled up inside him and he opened his eyes, staggering.

"I can't."

"But you did picture it?"

"I did! But... no more... Look, I–"

"Do you think you could have become aroused under these circumstances?"

John froze.

"What?"

"In your dream. Would you have been excited by the sight of me being tortured _even if it did not arouse me_?"

"I... I don't know..." John stammered.

"Then visualize the whole scene in the Basement, but without me being hard. Would it have turned you on?"

"I don't know!" John exploded. "Don't you think this is horrible enough?"

His voice broke. Wordlessly, Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, a bit awkward. He always was when it came to explicit displays of affection; but he also knew John appreciated them very much.

"No," he finally said. "I don't think it's horrible. Think, John, just think! You don't get aroused because I am being tortured. You get aroused because _I _get aroused. Your body responds to mine. I thought you had understood. This was the crux of Moriarty's device to break me – to break _us_."

"But this is no excuse!"

"You don't _need_ an excuse." Sherlock leant back a little so as to look John in the eye. "Do you regret having sex with me?"

"What?" John asked dumbly. "Of course not! Sherlock, I..." He swallowed, groping for words and finding Sherlock's hands. He laced their fingers unwittingly. "Last night was one of the most intense and the most beautiful experiences of my life." He caught Sherlock's slight pout and added with the trace of a smile: "The others were probably all with you, too."

Sherlock had not expected the sudden confession and the renewed profession of love. He blinked, looked away, and overall seemed rather disconcerted. But he was not done with John yet and collected himself.

"Then do you think _I_ regret it?"

"No. I mean, I hope not." John's gaze wavered. "Do you?"

"Not in the least."

"Then why–"

"If you do not regret having sex with me and I do not regret it either, then what's the problem?"

"But–"

"Oh, I see."

"Will you let me finish my sentences?!" John snapped.

"But this is quicker," Sherlock remarked, unfazed. "The real problem, then, is that you share Mycroft's views – or what you believe to be Mycroft's views."

John stared, lost. Sherlock developed.

"You believe that my attraction and... affection for you are pathological. That is, that they are the result of a trauma, which retrospectively you think to have resolved quite poorly. But you are confusing two very different things, John."

Since John just kept staring, Sherlock went on.

"You're confusing an event with a trauma. Both affect the individual, and may do so greatly or insignificantly. What makes it confusing here is that what happened in the Basement was both a trauma and an event."

"... Right."

"Don't you see?"

Apparently, John really didn't.

"_You_ reversed the trauma. You transfigured it and made it an event." Sherlock moved closer and reaffirmed his hold on John. "It was the same crux," he murmured. "Do not listen to anything anyone says on the matter. Don't take what Moriarty or Mycroft say for the gospel truth – they are the last to be trusted. Just remember the facts. Remember waiting at the hospital. Remember bringing me back to Baker Street. Remember your reaction when you found me on my bed waiting for you. Remember what you did. Remember the belt. Remember the _dance_. Who else but us can judge what was right or wrong then?"

Something broke in John's eyes, and something flowed freely again. But Sherlock was holding him too close to see it. John shivered in the embrace, suddenly feeling how warm the water truly was against his skin; suddenly becoming aware of Sherlock's heart beating against his. He held him back.

"It is true I would have never become involved in romance or sex with you before the Basement. But you must understand the Basement as both a trauma and an _event_. It could have been another triggering factor. Or, it could also have been the case that whatever traces of desire we had remained latent all our lives. At any rate, this is _not_ some kind of PTSD symptom. I thought we were both clear on that."

His cheek pressed against Sherlock's chest, revelling in the beats, John answered in a croaky voice:

"But that's not the issue. I still got aroused while you were being tortured."

"And I got aroused while _I_ was being tortured. What do you think is the worse?"

John chuckled, exhausted. Sherlock caressed his hair.

"This was part and parcel of the torture – and you too were being tortured. I..."

Sherlock swallowed, furrowing his brow in frustration at being so awkward.

"This," he said abruptly, making John start. "I think this is fine." John blinked. "Better than fine. It's... good. It is completely irrelevant to consider it from an objective point of view, because there is nothing objective to it. From an outer perspective, you have been imposing yourself on me and I have been manipulating you. Now, even you must realize how illogical this statement is."

"Proof by contradiction?" John asked, repressing a giggle. This was crazy. They were crazy.

"Precisely," Sherlock replied most seriously.

John sighed. "You make it all sound so simple."

"Because it is."

Their eyes locked. Tentatively, Sherlock traced the side of John's chest and his hip. "'What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence.'"

John furrowed his brow slightly, tilting his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"That it is time I demonstrate one of my previous statements."

"Which was?"

"That your body responds to mine."

Sherlock replaced the shower on its stand above their heads and pinned John against the wall again with a barely hidden smirk.

"Sherlock!" John protested.

Sherlock kissed him to silence, hesitantly at first, not sure John would feel like it. But John responded to the embrace. Letting out a smile of relief, Sherlock deepened the kiss, his hands roaming John's throat, John's chest, John's back.

"You tricked me," John groaned, short of breath as they broke the kiss.

"You permitted me to," Sherlock reminded him. John rolled his eyes and pulled him down.

"You are deviousness itself," he murmured against his lips.

Sherlock did not deny it.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

"John. I'm bored."

"What? But I'm here!"

"Yes, and you're shaving! How entertaining do you think that is for someone stuck in a bathtub?"

John rolled his eyes, then focused on his reflection in the mirror again. Sherlock was observing him from behind. It was not strictly true that John wasn't entertaining. Sherlock wondered what could make John's mere presence in a room pleasant to him. Enveloping. Then he realized. _His scent. _John had different kinds of scents, of course – the one he had after he'd shaved, the one attached to his all-year-round jacket, the one he had when he'd just washed his hair, the one he had when he came back from a brisk walk outside to "get some air"... But there was a deeper, more fundamental one still: the one of his skin. It was always there, his very own scent, pervading all other scents that could still be called "John's scent" but weren't as primary. The scent of his body was naturally very present in sex, too, but Sherlock realized that he smelled it most distinctly at night, when they were just lying in bed, each having his own nightmares. A small, small smile played on his lips for an instant.

"John."

"What?"

"I'm cold."

"But the bathwater is warm."

"I'm cold," Sherlock repeated, stubborn.

John sighed.

"What can I do for you then?"

"...Take a bath with me?"

"No. We can't spend the whole day in the bathroom."

"Why not? I don't have a case."

John rolled his eyes and Sherlock gave his most adorable moue in an attempt to persuade him. Then he remembered something and dropped the act immediately. Wasn't John supposed to be working at the clinic today? When was the last time he...?

"You quit," he suddenly said, realization hitting him.

"What?"

"Your job at the clinic. You quit."

John blinked. He looked at Sherlock's reflection in the mirror, then at his own image again.

"Yes. I did."

Sherlock did not ask why; but he stopped complaining about the cold. After a while, John started worrying about the silence. He washed and dried his face with a towel before coming to sit on the rim of the bathtub.

"I'll dry your hair if you'd like," he offered, stroking the wet curls.

"Do I still have to stay in the bath for long?"

"You can get out once I've dried your hair."

Sherlock pouted.

"Only _you_ get to enjoy yourself," he grumbled.

John chuckled and leant it to kiss his temple.

"Oh, I think you've enjoyed yourself just fine."

So John dried Sherlock's hair and Sherlock let him.

As John ran his hand through the black locks, the consulting detective could not help but think that he was doomed. As if John's touch were responsible for it. Hadn't he become quite useless after the Basement? Hadn't he kept messing up all his cases? First he had been tricked by Mycroft, then by Moriarty; he'd also failed to finish the Hilton Cubitt case properly – although technically it shouldn't have been a failure. He had figured everything out just fine. But that idiotic man just had to act like his idiotic self.

Sherlock's brow clouded. That was why he felt stupid. Idiotic Hilton Cubitt had just acted _like his idiotic self_. Sherlock should have been able to predict his behaviour. Worse than that, he had acted completely irrationally in the Cubitts' room – closing the door behind him, getting _shot_. Stupid, stupid...

"What are you thinking about?"

"Cases."

"Ah. Well, if you're badly in need, I suppose I could call Greg and–"

"No."

"No?"

"I am not 'in need'."

"I meant in need of a case, Sherlock."

"But I'm not_ in need _of a case!"

"Fine, fine! I just thought you... Oh, never mind."

They fell quiet again. Sherlock tried to concentrate on the feel of John's hand on his scalp. He breathed in deeply. He didn't know if he was capable of solving a case properly anymore; didn't know if he was capable of keeping John by his side. Didn't know if he was capable of keeping him _safe._.. that is, alive.

Now Sherlock felt cold. He had felt warm when they had been under the shower and he'd tried to caress all of John's self-deprecating thoughts away. It was still very strange to him, touching someone and being touched. Never had he been aware that skin could be such an incredible interface. He had never been touched much.

Maybe that was the reason he had been acting so strange lately. Never had he been so frequently touched in his entire life as he had during this past week. And what about John? Even when he had a girlfriend, he did not see her that often. Not every day. It never lasted long enough to get to that stage. He didn't live with her. Thank God.

So it must have been somewhat new for John as well, Sherlock mused with satisfaction. He shivered as John's hand ran just a little lower and brushed the nape of his neck.

Skin was such a strange thing. You couldn't touch without being touched at the same time. Sherlock had never really stopped to notice, for he was more accustomed to touching dead bodies than living ones. Or objects. It had been a very long time since he had touched anything just for the sake of touching it, too. As a child, he remembered experimenting through touching. Discovering. Playing. And with John, he had found that again – something he could not find in anything else, for everything else he touched only as a means to get somewhere.

Although he had to admit he did a bit of that with John, too.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"It's fine, now. If you want to look for another job. Maybe Mycroft can help you."

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock turned his head slightly to look at his partner.

"Since it was because of me. Surely he would feel indebted to you for some silly brotherly reason. You should make the most of it."

John stopped the hairdryer abruptly. Too abruptly for Sherlock, who wondered if he had said something wrong.

"Why are you saying this?" John asked.

"Because I'm doing better," Sherlock declared decidedly.

"Sherlock, I'm not your baby-sitter. I–"

"But you quit so you would have more time for me."

"What if I want more time with you?"

Sherlock wondered about the change of preposition as his gaze met John's. His eyes widened slightly as he understood something. Stupid. Hadn't he said so himself? He hadn't been the only one to be tortured in the Basement. John had been tortured as well. And wasn't that what the guilt was all about? John was afraid everything he had done since then had been for himself and not for Sherlock. Now he was even having nightmares about it – like Sherlock. Like he used to have nightmares about the war, and still did, sometimes.

In other words, John too had been traumatized. Sherlock couldn't believe it hadn't crossed his mind any sooner.

"Sherlock?"

"You can have it."

"Have what?"

"Time. With me."

The faintest puzzlement lit up John's face for a fleeting moment. Then he simply smiled and turned the hairdryer back on.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

"Lestrade sent a text," John announced as he entered the kitchen, where Sherlock was trying to keep himself busy with experimenting on human nails.

"What does he say?"

"That he's coming with a case," John said with a smile. Sherlock did not look up and continued his experiment pointedly.

"Tell him not to come."

"What?" John's face fell. Sherlock remained silent. "But... Why?"

"Don't you see I'm busy?"

"Sherlock, he's bringing you _a case!"_

"Yes, well I can't take care of it right now, can I?"

"You were complaining about being bored just this morning!"

"That was this morning."

"Sherlock, it's just past noon. What is wrong with you?"

"Just tell him not to come."

Sherlock's tone was final. John looked at him closely, and the detective felt his scrutiny like lasers roaming over his skin and burning it from the inside. It got worse when John sat at the kitchen table and did not seem ready to leave any time soon.

"You don't want to see Lestrade."

"I don't have time."

"Yes you do. You said so this morning."

"Just for you."

"That's incredibly sweet, Sherlock, but don't talk crap. I'm not buying it."

"Nobody said you should."

"Sherlock!"

"Look, John, I'm busy!"

"I thought you said you had time for me?"

Sherlock sighed with exasperation, trying to hide the unease. And the fear. "What do you want?"

"Won't you sit with me?"

"Why should I?"

Sherlock looked away in time to avoid seeing the flash of hurt in John's gaze. Yet he felt the pang of guilt as if he had. "What do you want?" he repeated somewhat gingerly.

"Tell me why you don't want to see Lestrade."

This time, Sherlock snapped. His pupils flared up as he stood up abruptly.

"Would you?" he seethed.

"What?" John said, taken aback.

"Would _you_ want to see him?" Sherlock spat. Still John did not seem to understand. Sherlock felt a pang of despair buried deep somewhere in his fury. "After what _he_ has seen?"

John paled. Now he remembered. Sure took him long enough.

"Sherlock..."

"Spare me your pity."

"Oh, shut up!"

Sherlock started almost imperceptibly. He hadn't expected the outburst.

"Enough," John said sombrely. "Don't start talking about pity now. It's insulting."

Sherlock cast down his gaze. His throat felt tight.

Slowly, John walked up to him. Very gently, he wrapped his arms around him and kissed his chest because he couldn't reach much higher without going on tip-toe. Sherlock's throat tightened even more.

"Please stop," he asked quietly, and he noticed he had started trembling. John looked up, an unbearable, abounding clearness in his eyes.

"Can I still hug you?"

Sherlock nodded curtly, averting his gaze. Touching, and being touched. Seeing, and being seen. Suddenly he felt very tired.

Soothingly stroking his back, John was in his arms like a burden of warmth. Sherlock was reluctant to give in to the selfish urge to hug him back, to impress him again, to provoke his boundless admiration. A spectator. His public. John gave away compliments almost unwittingly, as a mere reaction, an exclamation, a statement. He sowed handfuls of them as if it were natural. And right now, Sherlock felt very much like hearing such sparkling words.

But he also knew he deserved none.

"It's pathetic," he let out between gritted teeth.

"What?"

"This. Me. Everything."

John couldn't repress a little smile. "Right. I suppose that includes me?"

"Maybe," Sherlock answered evasively.

"That video... I told Lestrade to destroy it."

"Did he?"

"I don't know. I'll make sure he does."

Sherlock was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable in John's arms and he hated himself for it. Shouldn't this have been the place where nothing felt wrong? Yet it did. It did, and he could not understand why. He felt trapped. Stifled. Just like he'd been in the Basement.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"I can still get the case for you, if you'd like."

Sherlock snorted.

"And tell Lestrade I don't want to see him?"

"He'd understand."

"I don't _want_ him to understand!" Sherlock exploded. Now that he'd burst out, he could no longer stop himself. He shook off John's embrace and stepped back. Still he could not find the words; they choked him, burning his chest and throat with shame and a sense of betrayal. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

He had to calm down and regain his composure. If he kept acting so childishly, John would always feel like he had to take care of him, and that, Sherlock could not bear.

"I'll make some tea."

John's voice filled the kitchen and was as warm as the announced cuppa. A shiver ran down Sherlock's spine.

"Maybe you can tell me about the Openshaw case," John added before turning away to fill the kettle. Sherlock just stared at his back, speechless. "You've got to rest anyway because of your arm. We might as well while away the time like this. And if you've got any past cases you'd like to tell me about... I don't have to post everything on the blog." Sherlock swallowed, fear and hope mingling in his chest, boiling, laced with a trickle of gratefulness. As he stood there, lost in the unfamiliarity of it all, he could hear a melody floating in the room, woven in each and every one of John's movements, his voice, the simplest word or gesture. _Bach's violin sonata n°1, presto. _

Sherlock sat down at the table.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

Lestrade did not come in the end, and Sherlock refused to let John go out alone to meet him. John indulged him.

After Sherlock had told him all about the five orange pips case and John had taken notes on his laptop, the consulting detective had continued recounting other cases. John had listened eagerly, if a little enviously, wishing he could have been there.

He wished he knew more about his friend's past, but did not dare ask too much. He feared he would not understand what had truly mattered for Sherlock, or that Sherlock would not believe that he could understand. And perhaps he would be right. Still, John felt strangely exposed in his partner's presence: Sherlock had unveiled part of his life from the very first glance, and John was well aware that every day, his enveloping gaze would see right through him. Sherlock's eyes could read him, but his couldn't read Sherlock. And John found it increasingly frustrating.

"What are your fantasies?" he asked before he could think twice about it. He had been reading – or trying to read – the newspaper while Sherlock was "confiscating" his laptop.

Sherlock looked up from the screen, his brow furrowed in perplexity. John felt stupid but decided he was well past that stage.

"It's unfair, you see," he developed, trying to sound more at ease than he was, "you get to know _my_ fantasies, but there is no way I can guess yours."

"I don't guess."

"Never said you did."

"And I cannot deduce _all_ of your fantasies, John."

"Really?" the doctor asked, genuinely surprised, both by the revelation and the admission.

"Obviously. Surely there must be some for which I would lack data."

John thought about it for a moment.

"Maybe," he recognized. "What is your biggest fantasy?"

Sherlock blinked. "I don't have fantasies. I thought you knew by now."

John just stared. "Everybody has fantasies."

"A serial killer, then," Sherlock mused half-seriously, sparking off a glint of insane jealousy in John's eyes.

"You seriously don't?" he insisted.

"There is nothing I can think of."

"But what did you think of to... Oh. Right." Sherlock had never actually masturbated; he had told John already.

"I was surprisingly aroused by the fighting," Sherlock commented to cheer John up. "The jam was unexpectedly pleasant but I'm not sure I would try it again. We could do it with something else, though. There's still the lemon in the fridge."

At this, John laughed. "What kind of fantasy is that?"

"What would yours be?" Sherlock asked, slightly puzzled by his friend's laughter.

"Well, it is quite silly. You'll make fun of me."

"I really don't need this to make fun of you, John."

The doctor glared unconvincingly. "On an altar," he finally said. Sherlock was lost.

"What? Like, during a mass?"

"No, not during a mass, Sherlock!"

"But still, surely in a church there would be people."

"With no one around."

Sherlock remained quiet, not daring to admit he did not understand.

"You like churches?" Somehow John did not strike him as the type to get off on blasphemy.

"Not particularly. It's just... Well, I guess it is only because an altar is symbolic."

"Ooh, I see. Romantic as ever."

John shrugged.

"What about you? Nothing at all?"

"I told you. I never needed to have fantasies."

"And now?" John asked tentatively.

"Now I have you," Sherlock replied, his tone matter-of-fact. John smiled. "Why do you think I want to experiment?"

Right. It was experimenting, after all. All of it. For some reason the thought depressed John a little.

"What about the Woman?" he inquired.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "What about her?"

"You were attracted to her."

"Yes. But I don't fantasize about dominatrix, if that's your question."

"Really?" John teased. It earned him a glower. Sherlock's glares were definitely becoming more and more of a turn-on. _A turn-on_. Of course! "Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"What about things that turn you on?"

Sherlock frowned. In the ghastly light of the computer screen, he looked like one of those grimacing masks worn by Chinese actors. John, remembering the Black Lotus, found the thought as disturbing as amusing.

"How is that any different from a fantasy?"

"Well, a turn-on is something we might just do. Or that we did."

Sherlock looked lost again, so John continued:

"I don't know, it can be anything. Your coat is a turn-on for me, like an apron would be, or –"

"I don't wear _aprons_."

"I know. I'm just saying–"

"I'm not wearing an apron."

"I never said you should!"

"But didn't you say a turn-on is something we might just do?"

John sighed.

"Never mind. I don't even know why I asked."

Sherlock knew. John thought Sherlock would have been just fine never having sex with anyone. And that was most likely true. But he also thought that Sherlock had merely been indulging him these past few days and used carnal pleasure to bind him down to 221B Baker Street. And that was only partly true. For Sherlock had come to enjoy it, in many different ways.

"Tea," he abruptly said, startling John. "You've made tea a turn-on." John remembered the cups of tea he'd prepared when he had danced for Sherlock, and blushed a little. "The belt," Sherlock went on, standing up and walking towards the armchair where John was sitting. "Your voice," he finally said as he stood behind John, his fingers brushing against John's throat. "Although your voice is a bit more than that."

Sherlock looked at John from above and pierced him with his gaze. He could feel his pulse under his fingers, his blood rushing to the carotid artery. Sherlock saw fear, hope, guilt, shame, devotion, courage. There were bruises and love bites and marks from the belt and the collar on his skin.

"The thrill," Sherlock murmured, and John shivered. "It resounds in your voice. Inciting it within you..." Sherlock's hand wrapped around John's throat loosely as he leant in, his lips brushing John's hair, John's temple, John's ear. "...turning you on might just be my greatest turn-on."

John closed his eyes and saw, behind his eyelids, the haunting images of his nightmare momentarily receding.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

_tbc_


	30. Breaking

**A.N.: **I won't be able to update for a while, so I hope you enjoy this chapter! Well, as much as it can be enjoyed, I suppose...

As always, reviews are very appreciated :)

**.**

**xXx**

**.**

.

.

* * *

**Chapter 30: Breaking**

* * *

.

.

The blackness was thick around him. Opaque and sickeningly palpable, it shrouded and stifled him. Insidious, cottony, it was slowly but surely asphyxiating him.

Then suddenly it was ripped and Sherlock gasped, hissing, trying to catch his breath as he was hit by the stench of sweat and blood. He felt a hand on his groin and screamed.

The world tipped over and he fell into the darkness again. He hit the ground, hard. The black was back, slimy against his skin, gungy under and above him. He tried to move and moaned at the sound his body, drenched with perspiration, made against the rubbery, squalid murk.

"**Sherlock I swear to God if you ever do this to me again I will ****kill you do you understand?"**

He groaned. _Yes_, he thought painfully, his head throbbing. _I understand, John_. He retched and squirmed helplessly as a hand came to rest on his stomach and another on his mouth, choking him, silencing his upcoming shriek.

"**Should we call it power play? I know you have a weakness for that... Not that it's your only weakness, mind you."**

The black was ripped again and Sherlock yelped into the fist that was suffocating him, yelped as the blade entered his skin, tracing a line from his chest to his shoulder. Darkness was drowned in a carmine sea of sweat and tears and semen. The palm on his belly was burning him. He bit down on the hand in his mouth and tried to rip it off. His eyes felt bloodshot and all he saw was a crimson haze. He bit and pulled and bit again, struggling like an animal, howling like one, blind in this vermilion fog against his now laughing opponent.

"**Ooh, playful, aren't we? Come here, beauty, make nice ripples with your belly. Or do you want me to go lower?"**

Sherlock felt his body shake uncontrollably. He retched. There was a shot somewhere and he tried to scream a name.

"**But something's missing, isn't it? You need _eyes_ on you to get off, don't you dear?"**

Sherlock heard a glass shatter and his nostrils filled with the smell of red wine mingled with blood.

"**No! Not like this. It isn't like this that I want to be cut."**

_That voice..._

"**Yes, Mr. Holmes. I would rather get cut on those cheekbones of yours. Would you like to have dinner?"**

Sherlock shook his head, _no_, but soon found he was bound to a chair. Gagged. Trembling. His eyes searched the room for John.

"**Tut tut, be good. I'll be gentle." **

Red lips. Blood red. Sherlock felt drugged. **"I'll make you beg tonight."**

A gunshot. He tried to stay conscious, fought the drug. The needle was piercing him. Another gunshot in the distance. _**"Twice**_**_."_ **

_JOHN!_

He gasped as he felt the riding crop replace the hand on his stomach and trace his hipbone before striking. Once. Twice. A hundred times.

"**Sherlock. Feel like experimenting?"**

Red lips. Red blood flooding from the gash in John's shoulder. Sherlock started to cry.

"**I'm here, Sherlock. It's me. Everything's all right."**

John's blood. His voice. Everything was red like her lips. Like the blood from the gush. Like...

Another gunshot. Sherlock arched his back, groaning, writhing under the mouth licking and sucking his chest, his stomach, and lower... His scream died in his throat. His body was racked with spasms.

"**You are very, very, _very_**** sweet, Sherlock."**

The blade lacerated the crimson velvet and Sherlock found himself unbound, floating in a white pool under an endless white sky. It was cold.

"**You should allow yourself to feel, Sherlock. Don't cut yourself off from sensations."**

A hand came to rest on the crook of his back, another on his right buttock. Resting there, with the assurance of an owner.

"**Don't tense, Sherlock. Just let go."**

The hand on his buttock started to grope, massaging more and more deeply; the one on his back crawled up his spine and circled his neck, fingers drumming on his throat, then falling to his chest to pinch a nipple. A mouth bit down into his shoulder from behind, at the base of his neck.

"**You're the only one binding yourself. I promise you'll feel better."**

His nipple was hardening and twitching under the onslaught and his head rolled back. The hand on his buttocks parted his cheeks and teased. Sherlock fidgeted and whimpered. Then suddenly something felt awfully wrong. He opened his eyes and saw John standing _in front_ of him. His gaze was not accusatory and he moved closer as the hands on Sherlock continued their ministrations. John was walking towards him in the pool of whiteness, smiling.

"**Sherlock... I'm not leaving you. Not now, not ever. "**

He was right in front of him and cupped his face. The hand on Sherlock's backside plunged in and Sherlock felt a finger penetrating him deeply. He arched his back as the other hand rubbed his nipple unmercifully.

"**I love you,"** said John. Sherlock screamed. The pool was shattered.

"**You're just confused. This is mere chemistry, Sherlock."**

_**Mere chemistry**_

_**Mere chemistry**_

_**Mere...**_

"**I admire you so much."**

This time the whiteness was familiar. A sheet. Sherlock grumbled something. He tried to open his eyes but found he could not. John's scent hit him, and he relaxed on the mattress.

"**Your courage is dazzling," **whispered a mouth over his, brushing against his lips before kissing him wildly. Sherlock let himself be impaled by the devious tongue and noticed he was blindfolded. He tried to bring his hands to his face to get rid of whatever was preventing him from seeing John's face, and heard the clinking of handcuffs.

"**Relax, it's just me. Sherl–"**

A gunshot.

"**JOHN!"**

"**You're being so dull, even Johnny here is more entertaining than you. Oops! Is he dead?"**

"**John, John, JOHN!"**

"**Shh. Calm down, sweetheart. His heart is beating. Can you hear his pulse? Not that his heart is the only thing throbbing, if you see what I mean..."**

And then hands were on him again. Again. Again. Through his confusion and the intensity of the pleasure and the pain he saw John's eyes, a gun, a blade... Red, black, white swirled. There was a hand on his left buttock and a hand on his stomach.

"**He's watching, dear, he's watching! Let's do a nice belly dance to please him, shall we?"**

Sherlock was shaking, from fear, disgust, exhaustion, fury, arousal, he did not know. He felt dizzy with nausea.

"**Here. Make nice ripples. Goood, you're good! I think Johnny boy will agree. Look at his face."**

Sherlock shook his head, shut his eyes.

"**LOOK AT HIS FACE!"**

The blade pierced his shoulder, the gun was pressed against his head, the barrel cold, so cold...

"**Good," **Jim nodded in approval. **"Have you noticed how his face's been changing? At first he was irritated, then confused, and at one point he was almost annoyed with you, thinking you might just as well get it over with so you two could get out of here quickly. But then I said strip, and his attitude changed rather drastically****. Didn't you notice?"**

It was hot now, too hot, the stench of sweat was almost unbearable, his arm hurt, the hands on him were making him sick, he wished the gun would shoot him dead.

"**What do you think, Sherlock? Was it disbelief? Rage? Anticipation****?"**

A gunshot. Sherlock was hit by a train of blinding light.

"**You were beautiful, and I never wanted you so much,"** said the familiar, warm, loving and beloved voice. Dazzled, shattered, Sherlock briefly wondered if it was that of an angel.

Then he felt a sharp pain on his buttocks. And again. He winced and moaned, pressing himself deeper into the grass and the earth, trying to get away from the whipping. Soon he realized from the leather smell and the sensation that he was being flogged with a belt.

_John's belt_, he mused when a second one was suddenly wrapped around his neck and slowly, deliberately, tightened.

"**Most people aren't comfortable with their bodies, you know."**

As the whipping continued and the belt around his neck was tightened at an agonizingly slow pace, a hand stroked his back soothingly. It was warm and gentle, the skin rough rather than smooth. _John's hand._ Sherlock moaned helplessly. Then brutally he was turned around, pinned against the earth, and everything went black. John was straddling him and tightening the belt and whipping his inner thigh with another one and the burning sensation was so overwhelming Sherlock did not stop to think how such feelings and maddening touches were physically possible. He felt John straddling him, his leaking hard-on pressed against Sherlock's stomach, a belt being rubbed against his shaft and between his buttocks, flogging his thighs, tightening around his throat, strangling him...

"**Maybe you're everything, Sherlock."**

Then a gun was shoved into his hand, and he was holding John at gunpoint. His eyes widened in horror. He was hot and cold and his head was throbbing, a heartbeat was hammering loudly, heavily, driving him to distraction.

"**It is loaded. _Two_**** bullets."**

A shot.

"**JOHN!"**

"**Don't make me hit Johnny boy again, Sherlock. Unless that turns you on too? Doesn't quite fit with the bashful virgin image, but then again, nobody would have guessed you had such resources. Well, nobody except me." **Moriarty grinned. His teeth were too white, blinding. Sherlock winced. Jim pinned him with his gaze and his pupils were too black. Sherlock started trembling.

**"Let's get on with the show, then!"**

_No_, Sherlock shook his head vehemently. _No, I don't want to, not again, I have to wake up, I have to save John I..._

"**I owe you a dance."**

Sherlock froze, chilled to the bone. Then he turned abruptly towards the voice. John was standing on a black stage under a spotlight. Sherlock saw only him.

"**Please let me dance for you, Sherlock."**

_No, NO!_

"**Shh. Johnny boy will do his best to please you now. Don't fret. Won't you dance with daddy, love?"**

Sherlock felt himself being engulfed in the darkness as the spotlight became brighter and brighter. He had to squint to see John's body move on stage. He felt Jim's body pressed against his from behind, grinding his hips, thrusting in a poor mimicry as he was revoltingly flaccid.

"**Move with me, Sherlock. Come on, be good. You wouldn't want Seb to shoot our star, would you?"**

"**Ngh..."**

"**Shh. Good, that's good. Move your hips up. Yes, that's it. What a fast learner you make. John must be delighted. Who trains you the best, love? Me, or him? Oh, don't whine." **He put his hand on Sherlock's thigh, digging his fingers in. **"Come on, you can get harder than that! Look at John. Here, wriggle your hips. Yes, like that. Good, you're good, Sherlock."**

Dripping with sweat, unable to escape the touch, Sherlock only wished the other would remove his hand, remove his hand now, now, _NOW..._

"**Sherlock, your stomach ripples! Don't you stop them like that, Johnny boy will be disappointed. Here. Yes, that's good. Oh dear, and you said you didn't know how to do this. You're more endearing than a professional, you know?"**

Suddenly the room was filled with light and Sherlock recoiled, stepped back, tried to hide, anywhere, away from John's gaze.

"**No no no no no, Sherlock! You got your treat, now be nice and show your pet how good his performance was,"** Moriarty said patronizingly, petting his inner thigh.

"**Why are you so scared of involving your body in this ability you have to 'dance'?" **John asked from the stage.

"**Are you scared of losing all your control in front of Johnny, Sherlock? Silly boy... You know and I know you know, so admit it already! You're enjoying this. And you know why, don't you, love? It's because he's watching. Yes, Sherlock. That's why you are so pathetically turned on. Didn't you say it yourself? Every genius craves an audience****. Now, come."**

Sherlock screeched as he was torn apart by the white hot blade of the knife, crushing the stage and the spotlight and his own body in a contrasting chaos of black and white. Moriarty shot him in the arm. Sherlock screamed.

"**You're nothing, love," **Jim murmured as he caressed his bloody flesh.

"**You can learn to work with your body and turn it into an asset, not a weakness," **came John's voice.

"**Nothing, nothing, _NOTHING!"_**

Sherlock retched and came again, blown away by a chalky tornado of undesired hands and tongues and voices. His body was ripped and bleached in an immaculate swirl of light. A gunshot. His ejaculation stained the sheet with inky black. Sherlock fought and struggled despairingly, trying to find something to hang on to as he was swallowed by a blistering chiaroscuro.

"**Iloveyousomuch-pleaseneverleaveme-sherlocksherlock sherlock..."**

"**Pl... please..Sh... SHERLOCK!"**

The glare disintegrated the shroud. Disintegrated all.

**"I'm here,"** cut in John's voice. **"Don't slip away. I'm here, Sherlock."**

Sherlock woke up without emitting a sound, but sitting up so violently, pushing away the sheets and blanket with such haste and disgust, that John was awake even before his partner had jumped out of bed, his complexion more ashen still than the mattress he was fleeing.

"Sherlock?"

The taller man took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair; his curls were wet with sweat. Sherlock tried not to retch.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Would you like me to get you some water?"

"I said I'm fine, John."

He started pacing the room feverishly, gradually slowing down his pace, until he had got back a semblance of composure. He checked his pulse, and, satisfied, returned to the bed. He lay down still, on the duvet, not getting in.

"Sorry," he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

"What are you sorry about?" John murmured, moving closer to him.

"I snapped at you."

John chuckled quietly.

"It's OK. I know what nightmares are like."

Sherlock swallowed, not replying. John had a pained look and averted his gaze. _No you don't_, said Sherlock's silence. _You don't know_. But he did. John was not thinking about the typical ex-soldier nightmares; and it hurt to see that Sherlock considered his dreams far worse than anything John could have dreamt of since the Basement. It hurt to think he was wrong; and it hurt to think he was right.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated, bringing a hand to John's face. John leant into his palm automatically.

"I said it's OK," he answered with a small smile. He was relieved to see it mirrored on Sherlock's lips. His eyes lingered just a little too long on his lover's mouth and before he knew it he was drawn to it, leaning towards it... He froze when he felt Sherlock's palm on his torso, stopping him. His eyes widened slightly and he drew a deep breath.

"Sorry, I–" John floundered.

"Don't."

"I didn't want to–"

"I know."

"Sherlock, are you really all right?"

Not moving even an inch closer, John took Sherlock's hand in his, stroking the palm with his thumb.

"I'm _fine_, John."

"Do you want to talk about your nightmare?"

"No."

They fell silent. Lowering himself, Sherlock moved closer until he could snuggle up to John's chest, resting his head on his uninjured shoulder.

"How are your stitches?" he murmured.

"How are yours?" John countered. Sherlock smiled and his nose rubbed against his partner's throat. Not daring to kiss him, John simply nuzzled his curls and wrapped an arm around the pale, bare body that glistened with perspiration. Sherlock stiffened instantly.

"God, I'm sorry, I just don't know what to do, I–" John began, removing his arm. But Sherlock clutched the hand that was holding his and put his other hand on John's elbow, interrupting his movement. "Stay," he whispered, and John wondered if there wasn't some urgency in his voice.

"Of course. I'm not going anywhere. I just don't know what to–"

"You don't have to do anything."

Eventually, John settled on caressing Sherlock's hair in as soothing a manner as he could, and stroked the back of the hand he was holding, calming its slight tremor. The smaller man shifted a little to fit more comfortably against his partner's body for the rest of the night but halted abruptly when Sherlock moaned and buried his face deeper in John's chest to stifle it.

"Sherl..."

John gulped as he realized what had elicited the groan. How could he have not felt it sooner? Sherlock was hard. _Very_ hard. John smiled. Slowly, very gently, he let his hand fall to the nape of his lover's neck and down his back. Sherlock tensed and a shiver ran down his spine.

"Don't," he whispered hoarsely.

"But isn't it painful?"

"Just don't. Please."

Not knowing what to do with his hand anymore, John simply let it fall back on the mattress beside Sherlock's back. Suddenly he felt very awkward. It did not help that Sherlock's erection was still pressed right above his knee. His throat felt dry. He swallowed.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked in a small voice, feeling John's heart pounding against him.

"Anderson in a bathing suit."

"_What?_"

Sherlock moved back a little to look John in the eye. The ex-soldier let out a sigh he didn't know he was holding. Sherlock was frowning at him.

"Don't give me that look!" he grumbled, fixing his gaze on the door as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Heat was rising in his cheeks, and he could feel it.

The next moment Sherlock was giggling. John was so surprised he looked at him again. It was a mistake. The light from the street came in a stripe through the curtains, falling on Sherlock's profile. He looked exhausted, and beautiful. And suddenly he stopped. The room fell dreadfully quiet.

Sherlock's gaze was lost, staring out in emptiness.

"Sherlock..." John murmured. He didn't know whether it was the light or the silence or his lover's trapped and broken-looking eyes, but he couldn't stop himself. In a second he was around Sherlock, hugging him, kissing him, caressing the back of his head and his neck protectively, wishing he could take away all his nightmares from him.

Because he was so engrossed in cosseting him, it took him some time to become aware of the trembling.

"Sherlock?"

"Don't... Sorry... I..." came the muttered, incomprehensible reply.

"What?" John asked, holding his lover closer, unintentionally brushing his thigh against his erection. Sherlock let out a hiss and recoiled before suddenly shoving his friend away.

"I can't. John, I can't. I just don't want–"

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have–"

"NO! It's not your fault, it's just... I..."

"What can I do?" John asked, his voice breaking.

Sherlock shook his head, then shut his eyes tight, as if fighting off threatening tears. Or concentrating intensely on something. It seemed to last forever, but finally he opened his eyes again. They locked with John's for an instant, before Sherlock looked down.

"I... I'm sorry, it's just... The nightmare..." He trailed off, bit his lower lip. Took in a deep breath. "I just want to lie down with you. Is that all right?"

"God, Sherlock, of course it's all right!"

"I mean no touching."

John's eyes widened and he hoped it was dark enough for Sherlock not to notice.

"...Yes, of course."

Sherlock groaned.

"No, not like _that_... I meant..."

He growled, getting obviously frustrated – whether with himself or with John, John did not know – and fell back on the mattress.

"Lie down," he ordered. John complied without a word, careful to avoid contact. He therefore jumped when Sherlock huddled up against him once more, nuzzling the crook of his neck. John could feel his warm, irregular breath against his throat.

"You can stroke my hair," Sherlock mumbled against him. John felt the vibration of his voice on his skin.

The fondness that overwhelmed John almost choked him. Deciding that Sherlock would not appreciate any outpouring, and that a profession of boundless love was likely to scare him away, he simply leant in, wrapped his arms in a loose embrace around his friend, and resumed caressing his alluring curls. To get rid of his now much unwanted hard-on, he tried to imagine Sherlock as a very small child, four or five maybe, or seven or eight, it did not matter. His fiery blue eyes, his wild curls, his pouting mouth, his cheeky grin... He was adorable. It did help John with his erection, but not with the urge he felt to smother the beloved face with kisses.

"What are you thinking about?" came the rather sleepy grumble.

John smiled. This time, he did not answer.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

At breakfast the next day, Sherlock was very quiet. Every time John stood up he eyed him warily, discreetly, and he glanced at the living-room door. John wondered whether he was afraid John would go out, or that somebody would come in. Sherlock had been on edge since the previous morning and still refused to see Lestrade, or to let John out of his sight. But on the other hand he was incredibly attentive to John's mood and gestures and every expression; he had forced himself to eat something without John asking him directly, just from the look he 'd got when he had pushed away the toast; he had gone into the bathroom alone and had not insisted when John had said he would shower later because he needed a good cuppa right away.

Well, perhaps that was only because Sherlock did _not_ want him in the shower, John mused gloomily. He had told him it should be all right with his arm, as long as he was careful with it; he would be happy to help, of course, but if Sherlock did not want to be _assisted_, then he could handle showering alone. John had taken a look at the stitches and they were fine. He'd still given Sherlock some painkillers over breakfast because he had heard his quiet whimpers in bed every time he rolled on his bad arm, and he had grimaced when he'd woken up, as if the first thing he had registered was the "annoying pain", as he called it.

John hoped it had been that. The way Sherlock had recoiled when he had touched him was still fresh in his mind. He knew it was because of the nightmare, or rather, because of the bloody _trauma_ – there was no way he could forget it. Still, to him this was just confirmation of his fears. He had been hurt and shocked by the rejection, but even if he was just trying to help, he should have known better: when he had embraced Sherlock and kissed him the first time, there was no denying that he had rather thrown himself at him, even though Sherlock had clearly told him he did not want to be touched intimately. He had hugged him spontaneously. He had kissed him out of sheer fondness and love. Without thinking.

That was one way to see it. Or, maybe he had just been thinking about himself, and about what _he_ wanted. He'd been stupid. It had been so natural the previous night when they had gone to bed together, so natural when they had kissed and touched, that John had forgotten how raw everything still was for Sherlock.

"You know," he began casually, taking a sip of tea, "I was thinking, we don't have to sleep in the same bed all the time, if you don't want to. Many couples don't," he added when he saw the look on Sherlock's face.

"Is this because of last night?" he asked quietly.

"No! No, it's not."

He went up to Sherlock and sat next to him.

"You're still thinking that I would have never wanted the sex before the trauma, that you're taking advantage of me, and–"

"No!" John lied. "No, I'm not. It's just.. I wanted you to know it was OK. We don't have to share the same bed, and we don't have to... do it every night, either. We can do whatever you want."

"Whatever _we_ want."

Their eyes met. "Yes," John said slowly, "whatever we want."

Sherlock looked down at his tea in silence.

"And what do you want?" he said eventually.

John considered this for a moment.

"I want you to be comfortable around me."

"So this _is_ about last night."

"No! Well, yes, maybe a little. But actually I think last night was an improvement."

Sherlock stared. Something like fear flickered in his troubled pupils.

"You pushed me back," John developed, taking another sip from his mug. "It's true you just stiffened at first, but... You shoved me away."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated for what felt like the umpteenth time. His tone was bitter and tinged with despair - or perhaps self-hatred? John could not quite pinpoint it.

"Don't be," he replied firmly, taking his hand in his and kissing it.

Sherlock's phone vibrated and John was about to move back to let him see what it was, but Sherlock held his hand tightly, conveying that he should stay.

"It's just Mycroft. He's been trying to call me since dawn," he stated flatly.

John frowned.

"Why don't you answer? It may be important."

"Yes, he probably needs me to save the country again. Though I'm surprised he'd trust me with that now, after the failure of last time."

"It wasn't a failure!" John protested.

"Yes it was. The Woman lost, but Moriarty won. He got what he wanted."

"Not _all_ of it."

"Yes, all of it," Sherlock said grimly, his tone final. John just dropped it.

"Well... You should probably answer anyway."

"Don't want to."

"Why? You don't have a case."

"I don't _want_ one!" the consulting detective exploded. John scowled.

"Fine," he said, letting go of his friend's hand and standing up. Sherlock caught his wrist as he turned.

"Are you having second thoughts?" he asked.

John blinked.

"About this," Sherlock went on. Then, more tentatively: "About us."

John smiled and without warning, swooped on him, crushing their lips together. Sherlock was so startled he gaped into the kiss, and sighed in contentment as John's tongue slipped in between his parted lips. He vaguely registered John's hand on the nape of his neck, running fingers through his curls, massaging possessively, holding his head in place. His other hand ran down Sherlock's throat, shoulder and arm, all the way down to his hand. John caught it and laced their fingers together. Sherlock squeezed the hand in his, tilting his head back as John pulled on his curls, moaning softly. John broke the kiss and Sherlock could feel the smile hovering on his lips, brushing against his own mouth.

"Never," John whispered, and Sherlock, more than a little stirred up, had some difficulties remembering the question. John chuckled and let go of his hand and neck before turning away, leaving Sherlock rather breathless, and hungrier than he had ever been at breakfast. On the table the mobile phone vibrated again. Sherlock glowered at it, then blushed, hard. He stood up abruptly, and followed John to the living-room.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

Sherlock was bored.

He dared not voice it, for he was well aware that it was his own fault if he did not have a case presently. Lestrade was probably still struggling with his, and Mycroft must have been quite determined, because now he had started to _text_.

Since John had insisted, Sherlock had gone through the trouble of getting dressed, even though there was no reason he should go out. His blue dressing gown would have been just fine. But after last night, Sherlock thought he should be as compliant as possible regarding the unimportant matters. And putting on clothes definitely belonged to the latter.

"Sherlock, your phone keeps vibrating," John pointed out as if Sherlock hadn't noticed.

"Turn it off if it bothers you."

John shook his head. "Why don't you answer? Just send a text and say you're not interested?" he asked, coming over to sit on the couch, a cup of tea in one hand, Sherlock's mobile phone in the other, opening the latest message.

"Yes, why don't you, then?" Sherlock mumbled sullenly.

"Who's Mr. Farquhar?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Am I supposed to know that?"

"Well your brother is mentioning him as if you did, yes."

The consulting detective shrugged.

"Just check the first messages he sent, then. He probably explained it all."

John did as he was told, but frowned. He took a sip of tea.

"Nope."

"Then he's trying to get me interested. Quite a pathetic attempt."

"Interested?"

"Yes, just being allusive. The case must be really boring if he hasn't sent a PDF file with all the information yet."

The phone vibrated.

"He just did," John informed him. He glanced at Sherlock.

"Delete it."

"What?! But Sherlock, what if–"

"I said _delete_ it, John."

"Why? If you're not going to do it anyway, it doesn't matter. Or are you tempted?"

Sherlock's glower told John he'd hit a nerve. He sighed.

"Can you tell me why you won't take a case when you're obviously dying of boredom?"

"I'm not quite _dying_ now, am I?"

"_Sherlock_."

They glared at each other for a moment, until John got tired of it and looked away. Sherlock repressed a smile of satisfaction, but his relief was short-lived.

"I can understand about Lestrade. But Mycroft?"

"John, won't you just drop it?"

"No."

"I don't take cases from Mycroft! You know that."

John thought about it and conceded with a nod. "But now it's different. If you don't want to take cases from Lestrade anymore, there's–"

"The website. Your blog."

"Are you waiting for him to send some guys to kidnap you and bring you to Buckingham Palace again?"

"No, this does not concern the royal family, or the government."

"Are you scared Mycroft might have seen the video?"

"John," Sherlock said, warning in his voice. Apparently it was not threatening enough.

"Because Greg told me he's destroyed it."

"And you believe him?"

"Of course I do! God, Sherlock, he is a _friend_."

"He is a police officer."

John clenched his teeth.

"You don't trust anyone, do you?"

"Strangely enough, I don't."

This was bad. Quarrelling with John had never been part of today's programme. Sherlock averted his gaze with annoyance and embarrassment.

They remained quiet until noon, at which point John stood up from the table, leaving his laptop, and went into the kitchen.

"What do you feel like eating? We don't have much but we could always order something or go to Tesc–"

"Not hungry."

"What?"

"I'm not hungry, John."

"But you're not on a case."

"I ate this morning. I'll eat tonight."

Sherlock expected an exasperated sigh, not the worried look on John's face when he came back into the living-room.

"What would you like to do this afternoon?" John asked out of the blue. Sherlock stared.

"There's nothing to do," he said.

"Would you like to go out?"

"There's nothing to do out."

Sherlock's phone vibrated. He growled.

"For goodness' sake won't you just turn it off?"

"It's your phone."

"But _you_ are the one holding it. Scared I'll delete Big Brother's texts?"

John did not reply and simply read the message.

"What does he say, now? That he knows I do not have a case and am staying cooped up in my flat?"

"He's asking how you are doing."

Sherlock stared blankly.

"He's what?"

"He's asking how you are doing. If you arm still hurts."

Sherlock paled.

"How dare he be so _patronizing?"_

"Sherlock, he's your brother!" John yelled. Sherlock's eyes widened and he blinked. John looked angry. Very angry. "Now get a hold of yourself! You're acting like a child – as always, you'll say – but be reasonable for once! Mycroft is your brother. He's worried about you. He knows something awful happened to you a week ago, knows we've been having sex since then and that's a first for you, knows you've just been _shot_ on a case that went wrong. He's worried, just like Lestrade was worried when he came with a case, just like he is probably worried now. People bloody care about you, Sherlock, and it's high time you got used to it!"

Sherlock was flabbergasted to be receiving a scolding from John of all people. Mycroft threatened sometimes, and Mrs. Hudson chided. But Sherlock could not remember the last time he had been given such a telling-off.

John was now pacing the living-room and ran a hand through his hair.

"Damn," he muttered, and Sherlock wasn't sure whether he was addressing him or himself. Sherlock did not dare speak a word, not knowing if the storm had passed.

"I'll answer that one for you," John grumbled, replying to Mycroft's latest text. A wave of tenderness washed over Sherlock. Suddenly he really did feel like a child. A pang of guilt twisted his gut when he remembered how loving, how protective John's embrace had been the previous night. How kind and selfless his stroking. He closed his eyes.

"John?" he said in a small voice.

"Mmh?"

"Won't you come and sit with me?"

"In a minute."

John finished the text and sent it before coming over. Silently, Sherlock gave him a hug. It was clumsy, but John loved it when he was all thumbs. It made him want to kiss him.

"Do you feel like experimenting today?" John asked softly.

The question surprised Sherlock. He hadn't really been thinking about anything; he had no plan, and the inquiry caught him off-guard.

"I don't know. Is there anything _you_ feel like doing?" he finally asked.

John froze. Now _he_ was surprised by the offer. It was the first time Sherlock had asked him what he felt like doing. Even before they'd started having sex, never had the consulting detective shown any interest in such things. During the past week, he had initiated boldly, had complied, had let himself be touched, had deduced John's kinks – but he had never asked, before they started any of their activites, what John had felt like doing. It gave the doctor a strange feeling in his chest.

"Nothing in particular," he said at last.

Sherlock sat back and eyed him.

"But you just thought of something."

John blushed slightly.

"It's nothing, really. There's no rush."

"What is it?"

"Well." John cleared his throat. "I was thinking, you know, that I'd like to try it too, some time."

"Try _what_?"

"What we did two nights ago."

Sherlock fixed a blank stare on him.

"No."

"What?"

"You won't like it," Sherlock went on rather curtly. John was astonished.

"What the... Can't I make up my own mind about that?!"

"But you won't like it, John."

It was a flat refusal. John broke their embrace and stood up abruptly. He tried to ignore how angry and miserable he truly felt, because it was silly really, this should not upset him so. But it did. It hadn't been easy to tell Sherlock, and it hadn't even crossed John's mind that his partner would react so coldly – that he would so easily, so simply, say _No_. And what for? _"You won't like it?" _How would he know?

"I need some air," John said, making for the door. As soon as the words were out of his mouth Sherlock was standing before him, blocking the way.

"Please don't," he begged.

"Sherlock, I'm not leaving!"

"It's dangerous."

"I just need–"

Sherlock leant in and pressed his lips to John with desperation, kissing him madly.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into the kiss, catching his breath briefly before crushing their lips together again. "Please forgive me." The memory of Sherlock's harsh words to Molly and his ensuing apology flashed across John's mind but he was soon drawn into the kiss again. "I'm sorry to be so... unpleasant... I..." John brought Sherlock down and closer, putting a hand on the nape of his neck. Sherlock stiffened but kissed back. "I'm just so _bored_, I... I'm..." He was silenced again.

When they finally broke away they were both panting. Sherlock's features were still stricken with fear. He rested his brow on John's. They closed their eyes as they tried to regulate their breathing. "I need a case," Sherlock murmured. "One I can... do."

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

_tbc_


	31. Admitting

**.**

**xXx**

**.**

.

.

* * *

**Chapter 31: Admitting**

* * *

.

.

When they finally broke away they were both panting. Sherlock's features were still stricken with fear. He rested his brow on John's. They closed their eyes as they tried to regulate their breathing. "I need a case," Sherlock murmured. "One I can... do."

John stroked a lock of hair away from his partner's face.

"Right," he said, catching his breath. "Right. Well. That's an easy one to grant, Your Highness."

Sherlock frowned while trying to reduce his glower as he realized he was in no position to be glaring, which made for a rather funny face. John felt like kissing him again. Instead, he cleared his throat and went on, trying to ignore the tempting proximity of Sherlock's lips.

"I'll just go and get that case from Lestrade for you and come back here so we can read the file together."

"No," Sherlock deadpanned.

"Yes, I will. You're not locking me in this flat, Sherlock. I'm free to go out if I wish." Then, to make up for what may have sounded a bit harsh, although it had been said calmly, he added: "I'm the one with the gun, remember?"

And to balance the firmness of his tone, John took Sherlock's hand in his and squeezed reassuringly. Sherlock squeezed back stiffly and a flash of panic traversed his gaze. He became fidgety.

"Sherlock, I thought you said Moriarty wouldn't kill me or... what was it? 'Damage me irreversibly' or something because he didn't want you broken beyond repair."

Now that he voiced it, John couldn't repress a blush; it did sound awfully romantic, as if Sherlock's well-being were physically, intrinsically linked to the state John was in. Which might well be true.

"Yes, well, that doesn't mean he can't do anything else, John. And there's Mycroft. I'm just tired of you getting kidnapped at every corner."

"And whose fault do you think that is?" John protested before thinking twice about it. He froze, then brought a hand to his face and groaned. "Sorry, that was just the manliness in me speaking. Forget it. Just didn't like being compared to a damsel in distress. Nothing to do with you. I'm sorry."

"Well, it _is_ my fault. No one could deny that," Sherlock remarked matter-of-factly. John blinked. But his partner did not develop any further. He seemed to be still preoccupied about John going out on his own. The doctor knew this was part of the trauma, too – not the one that took place in the Basement, but from the time Mycroft had the wonderful idea to make Sherlock believe John had left him, and then the time when Moriarty had managed to kidnap John just as he went out of the hospital room for two minutes to get a cup of tea. Sherlock had good reasons to be paranoid. John did not intend to spend the rest of his life always in the presence of his friend, no matter how much he loved him. But he knew that for now he should find compromises.

"All right. Here's what we're going to do. Just wait a minute."

John went to get his phone and began to write a text. Sherlock was pacing the room as if on glowing embers.

"Who're you writing to?"

"Just wait a minute."

"You're not going, are you?"

"Wait."

"John..."

"Sherlock, I said wait!"

Sherlock winced like a kicked puppy and fell back on the couch with a thump. John resisted the urge to smother him with kisses and drop the phone and the whole plan just to spend the rest of the day snogging him. He pressed the SEND button.

"There."

"Who did you write to?" Sherlock asked in a small voice.

"Lestrade."

Sherlock swallowed. "And?"

"He's coming here."

"John!" he exclaimed, standing up at once, a betrayed look on his face. Reproach was clear in his voice.

John allowed himself a little smile. "And we're going out."

Sherlock stood in silence, confused. John was making no sense. Not that he usually did, but most of the time Sherlock could still follow his line of reasoning – even if it was faulty and he was prone to non sequitur. Well. Like most people. But in this instance, Sherlock had no idea how to interpret John's words.

"Out," he repeated, refusing to make it sound like a question. John's smile broadened.

"Yes, out. Take your coat and let's go."

"But John–"

Before he could say anything, however, John was slipping on his jacket and putting on his shoes. Sherlock just complied because he was glad enough to be out of the flat when Lestrade ca... Oh. _Oh_. He grinned.

"Mrs. Hudson, we're going out, very urgent matter, we might be back late!" John told their landlady after knocking on her door. She barely had time to open it and see her tenants run out, apparently in a hurry. "Oh dear," she said, shaking her head tenderly.

Outside, Sherlock joined John in his chuckles as they ran down the street. When they reached a corner they stopped, and he gave his friend an inquiring look.

"So what now?"

"I don't know," John shrugged. "Got you out of the flat. Now you decide what you want to do."

"You just wanted to make me go out?!"

"Oh don't look so indignant. Or do you want to go back?"

"No," Sherlock grumbled, sulking. "I suppose Lestrade's going to get there soon. Not very kind of you to make him come for nothing."

"It's not for nothing. He'll leave the file to Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock stared.

"What?" John asked defensively.

"You're becoming like me."

"Clever?"

"I meant devious."

"Oh. Thanks."

"You don't need to be clever like me."

"Thanks, Sherlock, shut up now, don't get into deeper water."

They exchanged a look and a smirk.

"OK. So where do we go?" Sherlock finally asked. He was used to being bored at the flat. But outside? He couldn't possibly start shooting walls there.

"Movies?" John suggested half-seriously, forgetting it as soon as he met Sherlock's gaze.

The consulting detective was perplexed to say the least. He never went out without a specific purpose. Finding himself on the street without any idea of what he was supposed to do was a new experience for him, and not a pleasant one either, in spite of John's presence. He felt like he had been transported into a Beckett play.

Then it hit him. Had John said _movies?_

"Is this a date?" he asked abruptly.

A wave of awkwardness washed over John as he got a look from a passer-by who had heard them. It did not occur to John that the stranger simply found amusing the question in itself, and not the fact that it was addressed to a man by a man. He fumbled, frowned at Sherlock while trying to find the words to convey that this was not a question to be asked in public, then realized how rude it was for him to say such a thing to Sherlock, realized exactly _why_ he felt it wasn't proper public behaviour, and was overcome by shame.

He fell silent. Stopped fumbling, shut his mouth.

Had he seriously just been embarrassed by _a passer-by's gaze_ just because Sherlock had asked him if they were on a date? Well. Thing was, Sherlock wasn't just Sherlock. He was a man. _Have you just noticed?_ John asked himself sourly. This was stupid. It didn't make sense that he'd feel comfortable giving Sherlock a blow-job but would feel awkward if people in the street thought they were an item. It was stupid, and horrible for Sherlock. All the more so as Sherlock was so damn perceptive he noticed everything, and so...

John froze. He swallowed. Shutting his eyes tight, he took a deep breath and dared a glance at Sherlock. Damn. Of course. He just _had_ to be observing him, hadn't he?

_Obviously, you idiot. He's just asked you a bloody question, of course he'd be staring waiting for an answer_!

"John..." Sherlock began tentatively.

"Yes, if you'd like," John interrupted. Then in a louder voice than necessary: "This is a date if you'd like." And to hammer his point in, he took Sherlock's hand in his. His partner glared.

"John, you don't have to do this," he said sharply, taking his hand away. He averted his gaze. "Let's go to the pub."

John's eyes widened. "To the pub? What the–"

"That's where you go with Mike or Lestrade, right?"

"Greg and I hardly ever go out drinking, but yes, it's–"

"Then let's go."

"Do you want to eat?" John asked with disbelief.

Sherlock glanced at him quickly. _Nervously,_ John realized. "I don't know, do you eat there when you go?"

John smiled. "Let's go to a park, Sherlock," he told him. "We can always go to the pub afterwards. But it's still light out and it's a beautiful day."

"Romantic, aren't we?" Sherlock mumbled. Then he seemed to become aware of what he'd just said and averted his gaze again, clearly looking for something to add to change the subject.

"I'm sorry I reacted like that," John said quietly, putting his hand on Sherlock's arm, not daring to take his hand again. They didn't look at each other, but John could have sworn he felt a tremor of acknowledgement in Sherlock's arm. "You have to give me time. You'll have to be patient."

While John was speaking, Sherlock was panicking. Time, he said. Time for what? He shuddered. This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid. This was the reason he had been so specific in the way he had asked John about experimenting, the day after the Basement. Just... experiment. John was the only friend Sherlock had; he did not want to lose him.

Did having sex necessarily imply a romantic relationship? Would they be expected to go on _dates_? They lived together already, so perhaps not. Hopefully not. What had he got himself into?

_You're not being fair_, he thought. Fair? Yes, fair. What had he expected, really? What was it he had wanted from John? The sex? Just the sex? Had he really asked him because he'd been the one to initiate it, and was the only one Sherlock could actually ask? No, that was preposterous. For many reasons it could only be John, but mainly because it was with him that Sherlock had wanted to try anything. To experiment. With him and because of him. John was central; he was fundamental, and not just random.

So what was it they had now? It had to be put simply. Sherlock had to be rational about it.

A) John was in love with him.

B) John was not ready to face fully his newly found sexuality, that is, _bi_sexuality.

C) John did not believe Sherlock was genuinely in love with him. John thought that whatever came from Sherlock was a result of the trauma.

D) Consequently John was torn all over the place between love, shame, and guilt.

Then Sherlock had to add reluctantly:

E) _He _knew that there was something genuine in what he felt, but he highly doubted one could call it "love".

… Right. Whatever they had, it wasn't simple. And it got even worse when Sherlock started to analyze his own situation. He had no idea whether he could give John what he wanted. He'd never asked for a romantic relationship, but he'd been a fool if he hadn't realized that having sex with someone you deeply cared about usually led to just that.

_Deeply cared about?_ That was something else. Sherlock never had to analyze _sentiments_ from the inside before. He knew how to observe and recognize the signs. But it was all so alien to him that he could not link any of it to what he felt himself; a bit like knowing the exact wavelength of a colour won't help a blind man picture it. Thinking 650nm doesn't make you picture red if you've never seen red. Well, it was strangely the same for Sherlock and feelings. From the inside, the experience was entirely different, and he had no bearings. He had a certain image of love, mainly from books and films and discussions he'd heard and most of all crimes and murders committed because of "love". But he couldn't identify what he felt with any of it. For these kinds of things, he realized, the point of view was crucial: just like two people kissing look stupid and grotesque from the outside, because it makes no sense to stick your mouth on somebody else's and keep it there for a while, moving it; but for some reason – or rather, for _no _ reason – when you are the one kissing someone you don't even ask yourself _what in the world am I doing?_ Such a question, then, seems irrelevant.

Except that in Sherlock's current situation, such a question had to be addressed. _Seriously_ addressed.

It suddenly occurred to Sherlock that maybe he had got it all wrong; that what he had understood was the inverse of the truth. He had thought John was only concerned about _Sherlock's_ situation – whether he ever truly wanted the sex, whether he was merely trying to tie John down to himself by every possible way, whether he was getting addicted to it or simply convinced that John would leave the moment he stopped providing it, etc. But perhaps, even unconsciously, John was also concerned for himself. Wasn't the real problem the fact that he doubted his own feelings and intentions? What if, even unwittingly, everything he had said these past few days had been to persuade _himself_ that he wasn't just heterosexual? He kept telling Sherlock that he did not _need_ the sex, that he could go on without it. Admittedly today he had clearly said he wanted to try to be penetrated, but wasn't that even further proof? Sherlock could not quite believe John would want to do it out of sheer curiosity. There had to be something else. A reason. Perhaps what John wanted were further proves too, perhaps he fully intended to get so deeply involved into it that he could never deny it afterwards, that he would have to admit that he couldn't only be a straight man. And knowing him, Sherlock knew how much it would cost him.

A terrible thought came to his mind. Maybe John had never been ready to acknowledge his attraction to Sherlock – because he _was_ attracted, that much was undeniable. But he too had been forced into the realization of his body's desires – the key word being _forced_. There was something else Sherlock could not deny: John loved him. As he looked back on the past few days, Sherlock was profoundly convinced that John did love him. This was the reason he "danced" for him in the first place; the reason he accepted Sherlock's outrageous request of continuing such "experiments"; the reason he didn't leave, the reason he always came back; the reason he had gone along with everything Sherlock had asked, the reason John would have accepted even rape... The more he thought about it, the longer the list became. However there was a rub. John loved him. He was devoted to him, like only a very few friends ever were in history. His dedication to Sherlock was dazzling.

But it did not mean he was ready to face the change in his own sexuality. It did not mean he was ready to acknowledge his bisexuality from one day to the next. Now that he thought back on it, when John had accepted that Sherlock continued to experiment with him, _together_ with him, he had closed his eyes. He had sounded nonplussed. Sherlock had been on edge that morning, he was terrified and even panicked when he'd asked, and he remembered John had had to interrupt his babbling; then he'd said "I'd love to. Experiment on us." And when Sherlock had begun to develop so John would not misunderstand – so he would not believe Sherlock was asking him to be _his boyfriend_ or anything as ridiculous as that – he had interrupted him and said "I know. Experiment all you want." Then he had set the two rules: 1) You must tell what you intend to do beforehand, whether to yourself or to me. 2) We do not run away; if we want to stop, we just say so.

He had said "we", hadn't he? So if he had wanted to stop... Sherlock furrowed his brow. No, of course not. John was doing all of this to help him in the first place, of course he wouldn't say if he wanted to stop for his own sake. He would always put Sherlock first. He had reached a point where he would do everything for him.

That morning after the Basement, he'd said he had enjoyed it. What they'd done the previous night. And perhaps he had. No, clearly, he had. Sherlock tried to remember all of it, from the beginning. It hadn't been what he had expected. In the chaotic state of mind he had been at the time, he'd thought John would simply want to sleep with him, as if it were the natural thing to do to sort out their awkward situation. He tried to remember John's words – some key sentences, perhaps. _"You were beautiful, and I never wanted you so much. There, I said it." "I didn't want you because you were being humiliated and shred to pieces. I wanted you because you were gorgeous and I've always wanted you, from day one – don't tell me you had no clue, I wouldn't believe you. It's not like I was very subtle about it when we met either. Even if it took a madman messing with you to make me admit it out loud..." _Was it true? John had been surprisingly casual about it. Tried to, anyway. He must have been terrified at the time that he'd say the wrong thing and make it worse for Sherlock. Well. He had made better in the end. Much better. But this was still such a mess.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?" He barely registered the worry in his friend's tone.

"What are you thinking about?"

"You weren't attracted to me from day one," he stated pensively.

John blinked, lost.

"What?"

He tried to guess what Sherlock's line of reasoning had been to get to _that_.

"You were intrigued," Sherlock went on, "then in the cab to the crime scene of the pink woman, you became fascinated. You weren't attracted to me."

John frowned. Sherlock did not notice, for he was still lost in thoughts. In memories.

_"This is a misunderstanding." "I owe you a dance." ____"__You've got to overcome this. I'm not giving up on any tender gesture, nor on any part of your body, just because a maniac jumbled your mind. I'm not giving up on you – on this." "Obviously you can't delete what happened this morning, so we have to find some other way. Will you trust me with this?"_ Some other way. A _way_. That is to say, a means.

"Why are you saying that now?" John asked.

"It was a way to help me overcome the trauma," Sherlock said.

_"__You're not asexual, Sherlock. Your reaction to Adler was telling enough. But if it hadn't been so intimidating and frightening to you, it wouldn't have obscured your mental capacities." _Why had John mentioned the Woman then? _"__Moriarty was smart enough to notice that you weren't asexual or sociopathic, just incredibly clever __and __remarkably inhibited when it comes to your body."_

"What are you saying?"

___"__I'm afraid. My body is betraying me." ____"__It's not betraying you, Sherlock." ____"__But it is. I've always been able to keep my distance." ____"__But you don't need to." ____"__I do. Otherwise I..." ____"__You doubt." ____"__Yes." ____"__In the end though, you figured it out. The drug in the fog." ____"__But there's no such drug here." ____"__You can still figure it out."_

"That night after the Basement, you did desire me," Sherlock went on. _"Let's see what I can stimulate in you, shall we?" _"You desired me and you ignited desire in me."

This time John stopped in his track and turned to him: "Sherlock, what are you trying to say?"

"Perhaps you'd been thinking about it a little before the Basement," Sherlock amended, as if John had not spoken at all. "When we met the Woman–"

"Sherlock, you're not answering!" John put his hand on his arm. "What's going on in your head?"

Sherlock looked him in the eye, then answered, slowly:

"Are you having second thoughts about this?"

John's eyes widened. Sherlock knew he was being cruel. He had asked that question this very morning. John's reply had been very clear. _"Never."_ And he had kissed him with unquestionable passion.

But they had been in the privacy of their living-room. Now, they weren't in their flat, away from people's eyes. They were on the street. Sherlock knew John would not react in the same way. That he could not.

John's face filled with tension and Sherlock noticed he clenched his fists.

"I told you this morning," he said. "What have I done to make you doubt me?"

The hurt in his voice was unmistakable. Sherlock felt his chest twist with remorse.

"I am not doubting you, John," he said quietly.

"Then what are you doing exactly?!" John snapped. He looked distraught. Sherlock had hit a nerve. "What is it you're asking from me?" John went on, agitated, beginning to walk down the street again so as not to make a scene and attract too many gazes. "What do you want me to do? Kiss you here? Now? Is this a test?" He stopped abruptly and turned to Sherlock sharply. "Because if it is, I will," he said sternly. He was angry, Sherlock could tell. Very angry.

"John–"

"Is it? A test?"

"No, John, it isn't a test–"

"What is it, then? What are you trying to say?"

"I'm just saying maybe we're mistaken. Maybe I asked too much of you. I hadn't realized. All you were trying to do was help me. I–"

"God, Sherlock, is this because I asked you to be patient, to give me time to adjust? Is it really too much to ask?" Now he clearly looked hurt. "I'm trying, you know. It just isn't as easy as you may ima–"

"That's it, John," Sherlock cut in, as gently as he could manage. "You are _trying_."

"What's wrong with that?!"

"Nothing. Nothing is wrong with that. Look." Sherlock took his arm and pulled him along into Paddington Street Gardens, which was obviously where John had been leading him, then dragged him down an alley, and made him sit with him on a bench in the rose garden. It was rather quiet, and except for a woman talking heatedly on the phone on the other side of the garden, and who could certainly not hear them, even if she had been paying any attention to them at all, they were alone.

"Look, John," Sherlock started again, "I was not reproaching you with anything."

"Sure sounded like it."

"I wasn't," Sherlock stressed. "What you're feeling, the awkwardness, the reluctance to do anything in public, well... It's natural."

He could tell from the look on his face that John was not following. He repressed an annoyed sigh.

"Were you ever attracted to a man before, John?"

"No! Of course not!" John protested. Sherlock gave him a pointed look. _See? You're reacting as if it were an insult._

"Are you saying I can't possibly be attracted to you, Sherlock? Because I thought I gave enough signs that–"

"No, that's not it. I think you are attracted to me. No, I know you are. But it isn't something you've ever wanted or chosen for yourself."

"You never choose who you're attracted to, Sherlock."

"That's not the point. All I'm saying is that until now you've only been dealing with it for my sake. You haven't taken time to think it through because you always put me first and you did everything you thought would help _me_."

"Sherlock–"

"Let me finish. When I asked you if we could... Well, if I could experiment a bit with you, I..." He took a deep breath. "I hadn't realized you were..." He stopped. _In love with me_. But he couldn't say it. Because then it would inevitably raise the most problematic issue. The asymmetry.

Gingerly, John put a hand on Sherlock's which was resting on the bench. "I was what?" he asked gently.

Sherlock swallowed. "Why did you do it, John?" he asked so lowly his friend could barely hear him. "You said you enjoyed it, but... Why did you do it?"

John arched an eyebrow. "The lap dance?" He couldn't believe they were having this conversation in _a park_. He tried to ignore that fact. The discussion was too important.

Sherlock nodded.

"I wanted to do what Moriarty had done to you in reverse," the doctor said. "When I tried talking to you, you completely shut yourself off. I realized it wouldn't work unless I did something as... as _total_ as Moriarty had done. Involving your body. Involving your gaze. Involving dance, and desire, and fear, and the risk of death. And shame, too." Sherlock tensed imperceptibly. John reaffirmed his grip on his hand. "I don't pretend I thought I could _fix_ you in any way, that wasn't my aim. But I wanted to reach you before it was too late. I wanted to reverse the trauma so you'd realize you weren't alone and isolated from the world. I wanted to remind you how brilliant you were."

Sherlock nodded, incapable of saying a word. He was too scared of what he'd let out if he did.

"Then," said John, "when the next day you asked why I had done it, I..." He paused, closed his eyes, then opened them again. "I wanted to tell you it was because I loved you. But I feared it would scare you off. Then you made it so clear I was your best friend, your only friend, that it surprised me when you asked if you could experiment to understand your body and the way it related to mine better." He let out an unconvincing chuckle. "I accepted because... Well. I thought it might help you. If I refused you, I didn't know what you'd do. Maybe you'd never dare ask again. I thought... I don't know." He shook his head. "I wanted you badly. But I thought if I was careful, if I really made sure I wasn't doing this only for myself, it would be fine. It might really help you. I guess I was really conceited." Another mirthless chuckle. Sherlock couldn't stand it.

"John," he said, grabbing his hand and squeezing it tightly before letting go so John wouldn't be embarrassed if someone walked by, "You weren't conceited. You did help. I... Touching you. Seeing the effect my touch could have on you. It reassured me. It gave me the feeling that I could still be in control of some things. That I could do some things right. You gave me back some self-confidence. And..." He looked around to check no one was coming, for this part surely would embarrass John if someone were to overhear them. "And you gave me physical pleasure like I had never felt before."

The effect of his words on John was quite impressive. He turned crimson and his pupils dilated considerably. Sherlock swallowed.

"It's true I don't want you to leave. It's true I want to tie you down to me. But John, if you are not ready for this, if this is not what you _want_ – and I don't mean desire here, which is something else entirely – then I'll understand. You've done so much for me already. When I asked this of you, I... I know you consider yourself straight. I should have thought about it twice before asking this of you."

John let out a sigh he hadn't known he was holding.

"God, so that's it," he said.

Now he could perfectly follow Sherlock's line of reasoning from the moment he had reacted with shame to the stranger's gaze on the street. He should've been more careful. Sherlock was too observant, his insecurity too acute still.

"Listen, Sherlock. I am a responsible adult, no matter what Mycroft may think on the matter. When you asked me if we could engage in a physical relationship, I knew what you meant." _With all the ambiguity of it_, he added mentally. It was true. He had perfectly been aware that what Sherlock was asking him was to be his guinea pig, but he wasn't so idiotic as to believe that Sherlock felt nothing for him whatsoever. John thought perhaps Sherlock had too idealistic an image of love in his mind, and did not realize that what he was giving John was enough. John could tell Sherlock cared about him. He did not have the same notion of relationships as most people – as _ordinary_ people – but he was very capable of feeling. Which was, according to Moriarty and Mycroft, his greatest weakness. It was funny how, to John, Sherlock had seemed so insensible, whereas to them, it was almost as if he'd been the soppiest of romantics. As it turned out, they'd all been wrong. "I knew what you were asking, and I accepted."

_There it is again_, Sherlock thought. The asymmetry. John had accepted a sexual relationship when what he had wanted was surely a romantic one. But he had known. He had known Sherlock couldn't give that to him. And he had still gone along with it all.

"John. I think your... devotion for me made you go too far, too quickly."

"Is that why you refuse to have anal sex with me?"

Sherlock froze and looked at John, dumbfounded. Had he just said "anal sex" in a public park and in full day light? Sherlock observed him closely. Every expression on his face had been replaced by an almost military sense of determination. He returned Sherlock's gaze sternly.

"Is it? Because you think my... _manliness_ wouldn't allow it, no matter what I say?"

John was angry. Quite angry. But with himself, more than with Sherlock. He had to admit that he'd given his friend good reasons to believe what he had just told him. And it was, to his shame, partly true. He was having a hard time with this. Every man would be, he supposed, if he suddenly discovered in his forties that he was bisexual and very much in love with a bloke. Who could blame him for that? John had nothing against homosexuals. Hell, Harry was one, and he'd never hated her for it! But he reckoned that his sister being gay probably had something to do with how adamant he had been in affirming his straightness. Their parents had always been understanding. But John distinctly remembered, before they died, how the weight of giving them grand children had fallen on him the moment it had been clear to all that Harry wouldn't fill that role. It hadn't been a problem because John had _never_ fancied blokes. He'd never been in denial. He'd always liked women, even loved some, and when he was in the war, he took care of his needs himself, and never indulged in anything else with any guy. Not that he found such practice reprehensible. He was a tolerant man. Just adamant to state clearly that _he_ _was not gay_.

It had only become a problem when he'd moved in with Sherlock, really. Bill had been the first to mention it on a his blog, and then Harry had made such comments as well, about how infatuated he sounded in his posts about Sherlock. Well. All his posts were about Sherlock anyway. But before he'd met Sherlock, nobody had ever hinted at his possibly repressed homosexual tendencies. Just the thought of it seemed absurd.

And now here he was. He couldn't help but find unpleasant the thought of people's reactions. Harry. She would gloat for sure. Something like _I knew it!_ or _I told you!_ even though she'd never told him anything and certainly had never known. John himself hadn't known before meeting Sherlock. Could you actually turn bisexual for someone? Probably.

Well. Obviously.

Then there was Bill. John knew the nurse wasn't homophobic at all, but still he'd be surprised. He always used to call him Casanova, after all.

And then all the ex-girlfriends. They'd be proven right, and find him even more despicable. They'd most likely be entitled to, at any rate...

Finally there were the people at the Met. Lestrade would be OK. He'd seen the video, and he'd seen John looking up lap dances on his laptop. He must have known already. But then there was Sergeant Donovan and Anderson. John could already picture their snickering, all the little cutting remarks they'd get revenge with, for all the humiliating comments they'd had to suffer thanks to Sherlock. John could perfectly imagine Donovan give him a knowing look and say something like: "Ooh, so that was why. That explains it, yeah. Better than fishing, I bet. Do you _scrub his floor,_ too?"

"Yes. And I am correct," Sherlock replied, snapping John back to the present. He was a bit lost for a moment, then caught back.

"It is difficult," he admitted with a nod, "but Sherlock, it's not just that. It's..."

He trailed off, not knowing how to voice it. Then he realized it was because he did not _want_ to voice it. He knew what he felt most ashamed of. Thing was, they weren't truly a couple. They were best friends who had sex together. Sherlock had made that quite clear. John no longer thought he was using him, because it was so evident that Sherlock cared about him it would have been insulting to question his feelings. But part of them _were_ due to the trauma. And another part came mostly from gratitude and the wonder to have found someone who loved him. And it was fine. As long as Sherlock would want him, John would stay. That was the end of it.

Sherlock was watching John's face and could see all the emotions flash across it. John was an open book for him. Nothing like the Woman. His face was so expressive it was quite impressive sometimes. His thoughts and feelings were written all over his face, in the smallest wrinkle, the most discreet twitch, the almost imperceptible curving of the mouth... But the most telling were his eyes. They truly were an open window to his soul, or mind, or inwardness, or whatever it was called. Sherlock plunged into them and almost drowned in what he read there, so he quickly averted his gaze and fixed it on something safer. Like John's nose.

John's nose was funny. It was too long for his face, but it went well with his ears. His ears too were strange; depending on the point of view, they looked either quite big or very small. Probably because they stuck out, Sherlock mused, so that from up front they looked big, but when one saw John's profile, they were actually small. He had quite a lot of wrinkles, mostly around the mouth and on the brow, which always betrayed his state of mind. His mouth was quite big but his lips very thin. He was rarely well-shaven, at least for the observant eye. Not that he neglected himself. He did shave almost every day, but he probably didn't put much time into it, and often there was a slight shade above his lips, like the very faint shadow of a moustache. He often had rings under his eyes, more sunken than actually dark, which made his eyes look bigger than they were. His brow was so often creased that the four lines – two very pronounced, two much more tenuous – remained there at all times, just less visible when he was smiling. His eyebrows were the element on his face which conveyed the most his sentiments and thoughts.

Sherlock did not realize he was smiling slightly. His eyes paused on John's lips. There was nothing objectively attractive about John's face. Nothing enticing. Thus he could not explain his sudden urge to kiss him. He looked away, abruptly.

John was surprised. He too had been observing Sherlock, and at first he thought that what his friend had read on his face had hurt or disappointed him. He fumbled, and tried to finish his sentence one way or the other.

"It's not like we have to shout to the world that we have sex," he finally said, feeling that this hadn't come out right.

"No, of course not. Why would we do that?" Sherlock sounded genuinely perplexed. John smiled.

"No reason. I'm just saying."

Sherlock's eyes turned to slits as he stared at his friend. "Do you want to keep this secret?" he asked cautiously. John blinked.

"Well, Lestrade knows already, Mycroft knows... I don't see how it could remain secret."

"_Lestrade_ knows?"

John shrugged.

"Saw me look up lap dance tutorials."

"You looked up tutorials."

"Did you think I was used to lap dancing for my girlfriends?"

Sherlock blushed. "I hope not."

A small smirk lit up John's face. A wave of tenderness washed over him. Once more, he put his hand on Sherlock's. "I could take you here and now," he said in a low voice, and Sherlock turned to him with round eyes, unsure whether he'd heard correctly. "Actually, I think I could probably get hard for you anywhere. I'm sure you could even manage to make me hard _by text_ if you were on the other side of the city."

_We'll have to try that_, Sherlock thought, then slapped himself mentally and tried to focus on the conversation. And not on John's lips.

"So you don't mind?" Sherlock asked.

It took John a few seconds to remember the discussion. "I'll be honest with you. I hate to think about Harry or Donovan or Anderson knowing about it. I'm just... not ready for that. And there's something else, Sherlock. Public image. You have one now. You're not exactly famous, but in any case, you have a reputation of sorts. This is not something I should ever put on my blog, and I need you to understand why."

"Because it's _bad for my reputation?_ You must be joking."

"I am not. Some people aren't as open-minded, Sherlock. This might actually make you lose clients."

Sherlock snorted.

"I'm serious! It completely changes your image. It might make you look less... reliable or serious to some people."

"Let these people deal with their problems themselves, then."

"Sherlock. I'm just saying we should not be obvious about it."

_You _are_ obvious about it_, Sherlock retorted back in his mind grimly.

"Fine. It doesn't matter. I don't care about what they think. But I certainly care about what _you_ think."

He leant in, and made a point to lock their gazes together. "Are you sure about this, John? We can stop now. If I'm not giving you enough and I'm asking for too much, we can stop now."

John glared. Sherlock held his heated gaze, and did not flinch when he grabbed his collar. He was swallowed by the overwhelming and sheer strength in John's pupils. In this very instant, Sherlock felt more possessed than he had when his friend had concretely been inside him.

At last John spoke again. His tone was inexorable.

_"Never."_

He crushed their lips together.

* * *

**xXx**

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

_tbc_


End file.
